


Bound, Heart and Soul

by la_plus_heureuse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: F/M, Gothic Novel Esque, Governess! Hermione, Rochester! Draco, Slow Burn, Victorian, jane eyre au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-08-11 04:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16469093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_plus_heureuse/pseuds/la_plus_heureuse
Summary: Hermione Granger grew up clever and starved for affection. The last thing she expects when she takes a governess position at Malfoy Manor is to be offered the love she craves. But will this love come at too high a cost? Jane Eyre AU. Dramione.





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue 

 

Many times during my stay in the Burrow would I think back to those nights at Malfoy Manor. Those nights that existed in between the time before he confessed his love for me, and his most cruel betrayal. There were not many of them- perhaps a month in all, but they were precious to me. Perhaps they were more precious because of their scarcity. 

One night I would think of more than others. I had recently bid Cassiopeia goodnight and helped her dress for bed. Draco, as I had begun to think of him though it was far from proper, had promised to find a governess to replace me but I bid him no haste. I had become fond of the precocious girl and was remiss to surrender my position. I had helped her change out of her childish pale blue frock and into a lace-trimmed nightgown, and brushed out her hair, as fair and blonde as his. It made my heart clench to look at her. I wondered with fair curiosity what color our children would wear in their hair- his brilliant blonde, or my drab brown? 

“Are you to be my new mother?” Cassiopeia asked me with her forthright manner as she settled into her bed. It was as elaborately arrayed as any young girl could wish for, a far contrast from my own meager youth. “I should not like anyone to replace my mama.”

“I should not hope to replace anyone,” I said as I tucked her coverlet around her. “I will still be Hermione to you.”

This answer pleased Cassie- as I had begun to refer to her- and she reached out to grab my hand. 

“But you will be most precious to me after you marry Draco.”

“I am glad to hear it,” I said, and gently squeezed her hand as well. “For you are precious to me already. Now,” I said and released her hand, “it is time to say your prayers.”

I led her through her prayers, kissed her goodnight, and then extinguished the candles in her room with a wave of my wand, and slipped quietly out the door. My destination was not my own room- which had recently been moved from a small chamber attached to the nursery to a beautiful bedroom facing the gardens- but to the library, where I knew he was waiting for me. 

He was reading a book and sipping a glass of brandy but was absorbed in neither, for he glanced up as soon as I opened the door.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice honeyed and rich. I blushed at the impropriety that his tone suggested. It was something more intimate than we had experienced, but was not unwelcomed.

“Mr. Malfoy,” I responded, and dropped a quick curtsey.

“You minx,” he proclaimed, but there was humor in his voice. He may have been smirking, but the fire cast such deep shadows on his face that I could not rightly say. “You only address me as such because you know it drives me mad.”

I would not deny that there was some small part of me that delighted in my power over him, to have him desire me and to hold the means of satisfaction in my hand. I will only say that I tried very hard to suppress this sinful impulse of mine.

He had not waited for my response, but instead allowed the crystal decanter to pour me a glass of the same brandy he was drinking. The glass floated to the table set between the pair of armchairs where we had of late been spending our evenings. I settled into mine, and took a warming sip of brandy.

It was not quite ladylike to drink spirits. Astoria Greengrass would never be seen drinking anything stronger than claret. _But he has not chosen Astoria_ , my mind reminded me. _He has chosen you, and it must give him pleasure to share a spirit with you._ It gave me pleasure to share a spirit with him as well. His influence had left me with a fondness for a brandy in the evening. 

Draco was silent, as was I, but it was a warm, welcoming silence. I had come to treasure our evenings together. The library was my favorite room in Malfoy Manor, vast and high ceilings, filled with rich carpets on the floor, elegant tapestries on the wall, candles floating lazily along the shelves, and more books than I could hope to read in one lifetime. There were many qualities that I liked about Draco, but one was his commitment to learning. He regularly bought new books for the library and read both for pleasure and edification, a rarity in his set. He had urged me to read as widely as I would like, and I had taken to his edict with a single-minded determination. 

The centerpiece of the library was an enormous hearth and a cluster of armchairs, where we were sitting now. My mind had turned to what book I might read next, whether it should be something charming to read out loud to Draco or something in my developing interest of ancient ruins when Draco spoke.

“And how was the hellion when you put her down tonight?” His words were sharp but his tone was affectionate. When I first encountered Draco he had seemed dismissive of the girl who he claimed was his ward. I credited my own influence with the warmth that had grown between them.

“She is excited for our marriage,” I said, and chanced a small smile at Draco. “She says I will be something precious to her.”

Draco reached out towards me, hooking an arm around my waist and pulling me towards him as if the arms of my chair offered no obstacle. I went gamely towards him, setting down my brandy on the table in the transit, and settled into his lap. This, too, was not ladylike, but oh, was it lovely to be held as such. 

“You are already something precious to me,” he murmured, and he kissed me. It was something heady and sweet. He tasted of brandy and apples and his arms encircled me as he pulled me closer. “Hermione.”

“Draco,” I whispered as his fingers began to creep up my spine, causing me to shiver. 

“Minx,” Draco said again. “I knew that I could make you say my name.”

His voice held such a rich, seductive promise that I made myself count the days. Six days until we would be wed, and these wordless promises he was making as he kissed me, as his mouth gently traced my collarbone with kisses, as his fingers became entangled in my impossible curls would be fulfilled. 

He stopped kissing me and I found my breathing was rapid. “Your heart is beating like a hummingbird,” Draco teased. 

I rested one palm where his heart was, the first time I had touched his chest. “So is yours,” I whispered. 

“The things I long to do to you,” Draco murmured in my ear. His breath was hot and urgent. “Soon, my sprite.”

I swallowed and stiffened my spine. There was a promise I could hear in his words. He would not compromise me. He would wait until I was his wife. I trusted Draco. I believed that, despite his past, he would wait with me.

Many times as a girl I had heard stories of women ruined. I could never understand why anyone would countenance to such a destruction. But I had been naive. I had no knowledge then of desire, that throbbing, warm feeling that threatened to overtake me every time he and I were alone together. I still lacked knowledge of the art of love, but I no longer underestimated its appeal.

I nodded, not trusting any words. Instead I counted in my mind to ten, then ten again. When my thoughts were less traitorous I stood. 

“Shall I read a story to us tonight?”

“Why not something from the translation you are working on?” 

I chose a story I had recently translated from French- my runic translations were not yet complete- and summoned it to me. I retook my own seat. It was far too treacherous to remain in Draco’s lap. I began to read to Draco a story of an enchanted castle and a prince who had been cursed to remain in his animagus form until he had won the love of a pure-hearted muggle girl from the local village. Draco was an excellent audience. He laughed heartily during amusing portions and expressed shock when the muggle girl attempted to flee the enchanted castle. And when the animagus was shot by a hunter, only to be found and revived by the muggle girl, he was so still and quiet I believed he was holding back tears. When finally the muggle girl professed her love and the animagus was returned to his human form Draco nodded. After the two were wed and the prince was returned to his position of rightful heir of the kingdom Draco was grasping my hand gently. 

“How the prince must have loved his maiden,” Draco said, but his eyes were gazing deep into mine. His eyes were normally a bright, clear grey, but now they were the color of the sea at storm, with his pupils dilated so large they threatened to overtake the irises. “How could any man fail to love a woman who had saved so much of his soul?”

My breath was caught in my throat, and then the clock interrupted our moment. Twelve clear tolls rang through the library. Afterwards silence rang loudly.

“It is late,” I said, my voice breathless once again. “I should retire to my chambers.”

Draco studied me for a long moment, then slowly raised my hand to his lips.

“Goodnight, my sprite,” he said, and kissed my hand. I left the library after making my goodnights, feeling dizzy from the sensation of being loved. I made my way to my chambers and used the spells to unlace my dress and unpin my hair. In six days it would be my husband who would be unlacing my dress and unpinning my hair. In six days those kisses and caresses would go further, to the completion I had begun to dream about. The words were a talisman. Six days. I could not wait for them to pass, and yet I somehow loved the building anticipation for our wedding day. I fell asleep feeling giddy and untouchable. I had come from such a low background to this, the future bride of Draco Malfoy. The beloved of Draco Malfoy.

It was not the only happy memory I had, but it was the one that haunted me the most. Whenever I remembered him I tried to think about his betrayal, his secrets, his failures. But my heart was treacherous and reminded me of this instead. His humor, his passion, his patience. How despite all possibilities, he had loved me and I him, truly. It was a curse and a blessing that I carried along with me for those many months I spent in the Burrow. 

I return once more to the Burrow in my mind. But the Burrow is not the beginning of this story. Instead it begins with another relationship and another home- one far colder, and crueler. 


	2. The Red Room

Chapter One: The Red Room

 

In my memories Cracknell Hall always appeared shrouded in rain. Long before I had sufficient education to understand beauty and symmetry Cracknell Hall seemed hideous to me. It was a short, squat building, arrayed with expense and without taste. It was here that I passed many unhappy days in my early life. 

It was raining on that fateful day. John, my cousin was surly because the rain meant our nursemaid was unwilling to allow him to play Quidditch. I was happy to be hiding from him, for when John played Quidditch he zoomed about with a beater bat, chasing the bludger towards me as I fled him on the ground. Instead I was hiding in an alcove, tucked behind heavy velvet curtains the color of buttercups with a book.

I was not encouraged to read the books found in Cracknell Hall. My Aunt Umbridge had not gone so far as to prohibit my reading, but she had instructed the household staff to keep the “rabble rousers” away from the library. My aunt Umbridge scarcely spoke to me. She had made a name for herself for her disdain for muggles and she hated that my presence in her home made her a hypocrite. 

And so I had snuck a few books away from the library and hidden them about the house so that I might be able to read when I liked. Today’s volume was an account of the school John would be attending shortly. I had settled into an alcove and scarcely had begun reading about the search for an undisturbed space when the curtain was violently wrenched away from me. 

“And there the rat is!” John cried out. “I told you Georgiana, I told you she would be hiding someplace with a book.”

“You said that she would be found in drawing room, and I said that she would be in the hall,” Georgiana argued. “And here she is, hiding in the hall.”

John ignored his younger sister. He did not care for her, but neither did he choose to torment her as he did me. Instead he leered down at me.

“What is it that you are reading, rat?” 

To argue with him would only make this encounter worse. I showed him the book.

“ _Hogwarts, A History,”_ John said, his voice in a dreadful parody of a song. “The muggle shan't touch the book.” He stared down at it the book with wickedness in his eyes, and then his eyes turned towards me. There was such violence in his stare that I immediately felt a cold shudder flow through my body.

“If the rat has touched it the book is dirty,”John said softly. “And we cannot have dirty books here at Cracknell Hall. I shall have to burn it.”

“No,” I cried, the strength of my voice surprising myself. 

Besides him Georgiana looked fearful of his plan.

“Mummy shall be angry if we burn the book,” Georgiana worried.

“Quiet, brat,” John commanded. “All of the books will be mine when I inherit Cracknell Hall, and Mummy will let me do what I want with them. Besides, Mummy would never want to keep a book that’s been touched by filthy muggle paws.”

My breath was quick and rapid, and I could feel some anger and fury coursing through my body. It was quite one thing to be mistreated by John and Georgiana. It was quite another to be fearful for the destruction of my only companion in this miserable home.

John had turned down the hall and was laughing, no doubt searching for a fire to burn the book in. I had no doubt that he intended to do so. He had never changed his mind from some cruelty, but rather had always increased his devotion to his decision whenever it was questioned. 

I did not intend to attack him. I only began to race after him, attempting to save the book. But soon I had crashed into him, and grasping for the volume turned to wrestling. He was pulling my hair. His fist crashed into my face and split my lip. I was gasping and injured, trying only to rescue the volume, but he was too close, too strong. I had been knocked over.

Some previously unexplored instinct forced me to fight back. John was leaning over me, savage victory bright in his eye. I took my foot and kicked him directly in his stomach, at which point he doubled over and began to wheeze. I scrambled up and grabbed the book away, intending to flee.

“Hermione dear, what is the meaning of this?”

The voice of my Aunt Umbridge, with all the sweetness of honey and all the tartness of vinegar, rooted me to the spot in the carpet. Filled with dread, I turned to face her.

My Aunt Umbridge was as short and squat as her home. She was dressed in a volumous pink gown, with her hair elaborately arrayed with ribbons the color of lemon. None of her attempts at delicacy softened her. She was a cruel and negligent guardian, and she hated me dearly.

“Attacking my John,” Aunt Umbridge said, her voice dropping to almost a whisper. “Now, that will not do.”

Speaking up for myself might be foolish, but I was punished no matter what. I must speak.

“Aunt Umbridge, I was only trying to save the book from burning.”

“The book?” She snatched the volume from my hand. 

“She was reading,” Georgiana exclaimed from her position as the beloved spectator. “And John said that books muggles touch must be burned.”

“As they must. And so you attacked my son, your better.”

“He attacked me,” I cried, my blood hot. “I only attempted to defend myself.”

Aunt Umbridge shook her head and gave me a smile full of venom. “My dear, you must not tell lies. Tips!” she called for Cracknell Hall’s ancient house-elf, and Tips appeared.

“Tips, bring Hermione to the Red Room.”

If it had been anyone other than Tips I would have continued fighting. There were visions that filled my mind of myself fighting like some ferocious caged animal, teeth barred and claws flashing. But poor Tips was a slave here, the only one living in Cracknell Hall who was more wretched than I. And so I begged, my desperation bitter on my lips.

“Please, Aunt Umbridge. Please! I shall not survive the Red Room.”

“Tips,” my Aunt Umbridge said, her tone full of glee. “Take her.”

Poor Tips gently grasped my arm and we disappeared into a typhoon of motion and pressure, only to reappear inside the fearful Red Room. As soon as Tips released my arm I felt my body begin to pitch and I fell to my knees. Another second later and the contents of my stomach had parted from me. I was left gasping, shivering, and with the taste of bile in my mouth.

Tips looked fearfully upon my potable state. “I is sorry, young miss,” he whispered, and with a snap of his fingers the sick on the floor had disappeared. Another snap and a single lit candle appeared.

“Tips,” I croaked and reached for his fingers. I did not know what to say- to express my fear about the dreadful Red Room, to thank him for cleaning me when Aunt Umbridge would punish him if she knew, to apologize for his terrible situation. But immediately Tips hung his head in shame.

“The mistress be calling,” he said, and spared me only one short glance of pity and fear before he disappeared. I was left alone. 

The Red Room was never opened, never disturbed. Guests were never accommodated in the Red Room. The Red Room was where my Uncle Umbridge had died, and even his widow feared to step foot in the room. 

A violent shiver ripped through my body. Fires were not laid in the Red Room and it was as cold as a winter’s rain inside the chamber. I gathered my knees to my chest and glanced about.

The Red Room received its name from the color adorning it. Everything was a bright scarlet- the walls, the draperies, the upholstery on the furnishings. A long time ago Aunt Umbridge had mentioned to John that the color came from Uncle Umbridge’s school house. I had secreted that information away. I had been thirsty for any information about the school they had attended, a massive castle where one could learn magic. Even after I had been told that I would never be there it had not changed my my thirst. I had even wanted to go to the Red Room. But years of tales of dread had laid over the Red Room, and now I was terrified. 

“Hermione, there is no reason to be scared.” My voice was shook as I tried to speak reason to myself. “It is only fearful because it has been denied light and cleaning and warmth. A ghost does not live here, and if it did you would have nothing to fear.”

I had no memory of my Uncle Umbridge. He died when I was very young, before I could remember anything of him. I was already living in Cracknell Hall then, my own parents having passed months before. But I knew the stories about him that Tips would whisper to me.

“Old master was kind man,” Tips whispered. “Hes never hit Tips. And old master made mistress swear to never turn out the young miss.”

“This is merely your Uncle’s room,” I continued, feeling my breathing slow and my heartbeat steady. “He wished no harm upon you.”

Though my limbs were still shaking I forced myself to stand. I grasped my candle and held it aloft. There was one vast bed, whose bedding was crimson and dusty. A red chair laid at a desk, piled high with books. A fireplace laid bare, the ash from its last fire still remaining. At one end of the bedroom was a low table with a straight backed red sofa, and it was here that I lowered myself down. 

My terror was ebbing. I had books here and a candle to read with, and I was alone. These were my uncle’s books. What was hidden in them that my aunt found so distasteful?

My curiosity was larger now than my fear. With a single deep breath I made my way to the desk. It was covered in dust, and I wiped it off with my sleeve before opening the first volume.

The first book was an account of the household income. My name appeared in it several times, more than John or Georgiana, or indeed my Aunt Umbridge’s, corresponding with numbers. But there were not other clues, and I decided it must be an account of how much I had cost the family. Aunt Umbridge lost no opportunity to complain about the same thing. I set it aside. I did not want to give her any more proof of my cost.

The next book was entitled _The Sacred Twenty-Eight._ I was reasonably familiar with this volume- there was another copy of it in the library, and my Aunt Umbridge was boastful about her own family’s inclusion in the volume. It was an account of several pureblood families. What distinguished this volume from another was a hand drawn family tree on the flyleaf. The Umbridge family tree. And my name was on it. 

Hermione Granger, born to Catherine nee Umbridge, who had a s in parenthesis following her name, and Edward Granger, whose parenthesis contained a m. I had never known their names before and felt that my heart might explode from the knowledge. I could not focus on that feeling right now. I looked for something to distract me, and noticed my own name was followed with a w. No one else in the chart had any letters following their own. I pondered the meaning of this as I studied the rest of the chart. 

Georgiana and John were there, although Georgiana had barely been a babe when my uncle died. My aunt’s name, Dolores nee Selewyn. My Uncle, Fredreick Umbridge. And the parents of my uncle and my mother, who were siblings- I had never had this thought confirmed before that moment- Orford Umbridge and Ellen Cracknell. I immediately made the connection to the home we resided in. My Aunt Umbridge had always insisted that this was her ancestral home. But it was my uncles, and if it was my uncles then I had as much right to it as anyone else. I put aside this thought and studied the tree further. 

The tree was long. Every few generations there was a name I recognized from my Aunt Umbridge’s society gossip. A Black, one or two Parkinsons. More of the names were unfamiliar. Eventually I closed the book. It had provided as many questions as it had answers. 

The third book was a biography of a man named Godric Gryffindor. I began to read in eagerness this story of an ancient man, my attention focusing entirely on the words in front of me. I was so interested that I stopped fearing red room. I had turned perhaps twenty or thirty pages before the worst happened. My candle extinguished.

I was immediately filled with such distress and fear that my breath began to quicken. It was dark and I was as alone as it was possible to be. I began to shiver violently. A fierce and swift longing rushed through my body- for the warmth and light of a fire to keep me safe.

And as I had willed it a fire lit in the grate. It was sustained by nothing, and was a bright, glowing blue. There was no way that I could make that fire.

Fear pierced my heart. I began to wail and shriek and bang on the door.

“Help! Help! There is a ghost here with me!”

I screamed and cried but my cries were ignored. And as I cried out the fire kept getting larger. It made the room brighter and hotter, the exact combination that I had wished for, but in my panic I could not see the connection.

“Help! A ghost! There is some evil here! Help me! Please.”

Still there was no answer. I banged on the door and cried out for what felt like hours, until my voice was horse and my body ached. I eventually fell into a slump of sobbing, curled into a ball and waiting for the evil to find me. I would fight it. I had no idea how, but I would fight it. 

My panic was my companion until exhaustion swiftly overtook me. When I woke it was in a space between alertness and dream, and I was only half conscious of a servant by the name of Becky until she gently levitated me. 

“How?” Becky said as I felt my body being suspended only by the air.

“Yous must tell the mistress,” instructed Tips. “I will tends to the young miss. She be very sick.”

Soon I was replaced in my own bed, and sleep took me once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a thrill and a privilege to get to share this work with you. I have about four more chapters already written and posted on FF.net, which I'll be cross-posting here. After those are posted all future updates will be as they are written.


	3. Chapter 2: The Visitors

Chapter 2: The Visitors

 

When I woke once again all I could see was glowing red. My breath began to come out rapidly. I had thought I was free and I was back in the red room.

A cool cloth was then placed on my forehead. “Hush, young miss,” Tips’ voice said, and with those words from my old familiar friend I could feel my heart beat slowing. “You is safe.”

Tips had spoken well- I was indeed safe. I glanced around and saw that I was in the nursery. I was laying in my own bed, being tended to by Tips. The red was only the fire laid in the grate, which seemed to grow brighter and more cheerful the longer I glanced. The nursery, previously seemed so dreary and cruel now seemed an oasis of life. 

I slowly tried to sit up in my own small bed and was rewarded with the action by a stinging headache. I gasped out loud with pain, and Tips gently lowered me back down. He began once again to dab at my brow with a damp cloth. 

“Young miss, young miss,” Tips said as he shook his ancient head, “you must take care. You is still delicate.”

I despised that word, delicate. I opened my mouth to argue with Tips only to release a great, shuttering cough. Perhaps Tips was right. It seemed I was not well. I closed my eyes and allowed myself only to feel the cool moisture on my face as I listened to Tips move around the nursery, muttering to himself.

The clock chimed six times and Tips’ motions stopped. There were several long seconds of terrible silence. I knew what this was. Dinner would be served at seven, with my Aunt Umbridge entertaining some important members of the ministry. Tips must leave. I dreaded and feared being left alone.

“Tips will return, young miss,” Tips finally said, and before I had the opportunity to protest Tips disappeared with a crack so loud the pain in my head returned to the forefront. I began to shiver. I had always been a sturdy child and this feeling of illness was new to me. 

I was not well enough to stand, or even sit. I could not read, even if I had managed to hide some book in the nursery. Tips was not here for me to beg some story or song from him. All I could do was lie very still in the bed and try to sleep. 

I slept alone in the nursery, with the hardest mattress and the thinnest blankets, and with only one toy to love- a worn rag doll that Georgiana had discarded years ago. I now understand that I was in desperate need of something to love, and to receive love. The servants pitted me, and Tips tended to me, but my Aunt Umbridge would allow no softness or fondness towards me from them. And so my doll Hestia was the target of all my affections.

As I laid there with Hestia in my arms it almost felt as though she was attempting to return my hug. I wanted her to love me so much sometimes I could almost convince myself that she was alive and animated. Tonight she was giving me this comfort I so dearly needed. 

There was movement outside the nursery door. I drew Hestia close in case John or Georgiana would attempt to enter. I had to protect her. But instead I heard voices- Becky, the maid and seamstress who had levitated me out of the Red Room, and Shannon, her sister who was a wash-maid. 

“And when we entered the room there was a queer blue fire in the grate,” Becky said. She must have been telling her sister about the Red Room. I struggled to hear the conversation.

“Fires aren’t supposed to be blue,” Shannon said. Her voice was careful. Shannon was always careful, always silent, and always keeping out of Aunt Umbridge’s way.

“No,” Becky said, “and here’s the most curious thing. It wasn’t a-behaving like a normal fire, now. It was making shapes. And when I went towards her it shifted to a great enormous dog and almost left the grate.”

Becky sounded pleased with being able to tell this story. She was so pleased that her voice was carrying, so even as I missed Shannon’s question I could hear Becky’s response.

“Why, it was in the shape of a Grimm! It means she’s marked for death- I’d be surprised if she lasts the night.”

“That poor girl,” Shannon said, her voice so soft I could barely hear it. They were speaking of me, and my blood ran cold. Becky sounded frighteningly close to excitement about my pitiful condition.

“Yes, yes, well the mistress says she’ll call for a mediwitch if she lasts through the night.” Becky’s voice was fading as the two of them were heading down the hall to their own quarters. 

If she lasts. I would last, I must. I was still young enough that I was not convinced of the necessity of dying, and I resolved that such a thing should not happen to me. I had confidence in my own ability, and Tips should not want me to die. And as if feeling my own doubts, Hestia felt warm in my arms, and I reminded myself that Hestia should not want me to die either. 

“I shall not die,” I whispered to Hestia. “I shall not.”

The thought was still hot in my blood by the time that Tips returned to check on me after he had served supper to the guests. He changed the cloths on my head and checked me and over my protests slid a potion down my throat, and from there I fell into the deepest sleep.

I woke to the sound of Tips bringing in a tray. There was light through the one narrow window of the nursery, and when I carefully attempted to sit up I found that the splitting pain in my head had ebbed. 

“There, young miss, easy as easy,” Tips said, and placed the tray on my bed. The tray was set with broth and weak, milky tea and toast with butter. Tips began to fluff the pillows behind me, and bid me to begin eating. A thrill ran through me of knowing that I would never otherwise be allowed to take my breakfast in bed. I would get to eat while reclining like a Roman Caesar or a Greek Senator. It was only this flight of imagination that allowed me to tolerate the thought of food, for I felt I had no room in my stomach. 

Tips flitted about the nursery as I gently spooned some broth, rich and warm and smooth, into my mouth. As I began to eat my stomach loudly voiced its hunger. It seemed that I had miscalculated, and I ate more swiftly, the speed tempered only by the heat of the broth.

Soon I had finished everything on the tray, and Tips was clearing it out. “Young miss,” Tips said, his gravely voice hesitant and peculiar, “yous has a visitor.”

The word clambered through my head. In my eleven years that I had been alive I had never had a visitor before. Instantly my mind turned to the horrors that a visitor could bring. I could not believe that something good would come for me. 

“Is it my Aunt Umbridge, Tips?” I said fearfully.

“No, no, young miss,” Tips shook his grand old head. “It is a the meddy-witch.” And so my Aunt Umbridge had kept her promise. I had lived, and she was now obligated to see to my well-being. 

Tips disappeared with the tray before I could assent to the mediwitch, and after one brief moment there was a smart rap on the nursery door. Without pause Becky pushed the door open, and then a spry woman dressed entirely in white entered.

“Ah, you must be the patient.” She said. She quickly crossed the nursery and took my fingers in hers, then gave them a quick pump. Becky seemed to think this was sufficient, because she abruptly left the nursery. The woman was carrying a large carpetbag, from which she drew a wand. With a twirl she conjured a chair, and let it drop to the floor next to my bed with a sturdy thump. 

“Miss Hermione Granger, I am Madam Pomfrey, your mediwitch. I understand you had quite a scare.”

I had never before seen a mediwitch. Tips did what he could when I was ill. Mediwitches did not come to Cracknell Hall either- Becky and Shannon, the only two human servants in Cracknell Hall were treated by the apothecary, while Aunt Umbridge insisted that she and her children received treatment at Saint Mungo’s. I was not allowed either of those avenues because I was a filthy muggle. And so Madam Pomfrey’s presence here was curious.

It was a curiosity that I had little time to explore, as Madam Pomfrey immediately began examining me. She extracted several curious instruments from her bag. One was a slender rope, one end of which she put into her ears and the other onto my chest. The end of my chest rested for a moment, then began to move towards my stomach, then my lungs, then my throat, and finally my forehead. 

“Tell me what happened.”

I hesitated, but some deep instinct compelled me to be truthful with this woman. She was a stranger, but she was kind, told her as simply as I could about the Red Room.

“A fire appeared?” she said, as she was now using two slim wires joined at the end to measure the size of my skull.

“Yes. A ghost made it appear.” I had been so convinced of this, but now my words sounded paltry. 

“Did you see this ghost?”

“No- no. It must have been invisible.”

Madam Pomfrey was now jotting notes, the parchment floating in the air. I was accustomed to seeing magic from my Aunt Umbridge, but I had never seen anything so natural as the way Madam Pomfrey used it. It made me feel terribly jealous.

“What happened before this fire appeared?”

“My candle went out.” I felt foolish as I said this, but Madam Pomfrey appeared terribly interested in this.

“What did you feel between the candle going out and the fire appearing?”

I furrowed my brow and attempted to remember. I was not yet accustomed to thinking about my feelings. 

“I was afraid,” I said slowly. “And I was sad. For I wanted to keep reading.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded, as if she too had wanted to read books when no candles were to be found.

“Miss Granger, I don’t think anything is wrong with you. You’ve just been subject to a good fright. But I will do one more test for you.”

At this she removed a syringe from her enormous bag. “What is that?” I asked, feeling fear build in my throat.

“I just need a bit, Miss Granger. Now, grasp your dolly tight.”

“A bit of what?” I asked, but scarcely before the words had left my throat Madam Pomfrey had plunged the syringe into my arm and the vial was filling with red.

“What is that?”

“Blood, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey said as she withdrew the syringe from my arm. She then pressed her wand to where the syringe had been, stopping the bleeding and bringing fresh skin over the area. It was over so quickly I had no time to react. 

She withdrew one more thing, a vial of blue liquid from her bag. She unscrewed the syringe and then slowly added it to the liquid, which turned the shimmering, pure white of a pearl. Madam Pomfrey studied the vial for a few moments before turning to me with a gentle smile. 

“Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey said, “have you ever wanted to go to school?”

“More than anything else in the world,” I answered honestly. I had many reasons to hate John Umbridge, but one chief reason was that he was promised a place in school and I was not. 

“Would you like to attend Hogwarts?” Madam Pomfrey asked me next. I shook my head in terror.

“No, I cannot go to Hogwarts. I have no magic.”

“Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey said, “do you know why I took your blood?” 

I cocked my head like a curious dog. I had no answer for her.

“There is a test that reveals magic in blood. There are many signs of magic, of course, but in cases of doubt blood can be mixed with a Sanguis potion. A non-magical person’s blood will remain red. But a witch- why her blood will turn-“ and here Madam Pomfrey shook her vial- “a pure, clean white.”

Madam Pomfrey’s brisk face softened when she took in my obvious amazement. “There is no mistake, Miss Granger. You are a witch as sure as I am.”

“But the ghost-“

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” At the shake of my head Madam Pomfrey continued. “They are corporal, and conversational. And they have no power over our world. A ghost could not have summoned that fire. But a scared and lonely young witch could.”

“But my parents were muggles!” I insisted. “I can’t be a witch, my Aunt says so.” But even as I spoke these words I remembered that family tree. There was a w after my name. Is that what my uncle had meant?

“Many witches are born from muggle parents,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Your aunt is-“ there was a brief hesitation in her voice- “mistaken. Would you like to go to Hogwarts?”

I shook my head with great conviction. “I should not want to go anywhere where John will go. Is Hogwarts the only school of magic?”

“There are others,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I will let your aunt know to find a place for you. For now, get plenty of rest, and listen to your house-elf. He’s taken remarkably good care of you.”

Once I was sure that Madam Pomfrey had vacated the nursery I pulled Hestia out from her hiding place under the covers.

“A witch,” I murmured, and held her close, imagining that she was alive enough to be celebrating with me. 

I had long thought that my Aunt’s poor treatment of me was a result of my own lack of magic. But in the aftermath I found that magic would not change her opinion of me. But her treatment was different. Where once she had found me sneeringly barely worth her notice, she now feared and despised me. 

By her instruction, John and Georgiana gave me a wide berth. Becky and Shannon, never terribly attentive to me, likewise avoided my presence. Only Tips would consent to remain in my presence, but he was kept far more busy than before, and I suspected my aunt was endeavoring to keep Tips away from me. 

It hurt to be discarded and ignored as such, but I could not rightly say it was not worse than the abuse and cruelty of before. I grew bold in my neglect, taking books from the library and studying them in the nursery. If I were to go to a magical school then I should not want to be behind everyone, who should already know how to cast spells and brew potions. 

And so I passed many days so in the nursery, studying the texts and keeping company only with Tips and Hestia, eating only what was brought to me by Tips on a tray and scarcely remembering to wash. I would have been lonely if I were not so consumed with trying to learn everything. Tips fussed at me to spend some time outside, but I ignored him. Outside was where John and Georgiana spent their time. I wished to cross paths with them as little as possible. And what power did sunshine and fresh air have over the imagination of a young girl more than stories of powerful sorcerers and magical powers? 

I tried casting spells, but I had no wand. Books assured me that young children often manifest their abilities without intention when they are afraid or upset, but I did not want to put myself in the path of such emotions for experimentations sake. I tried small spells, letting warmth flow through my fingertips. The morning that I made a daisy close and then open again I was filled with triumph. I was indeed a witch.

One morning when I was walking to the library, intent on learning more about potions ingredients I might find John ambushed me. He pushed me hard, so hard that I fell down, then laughed.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” he taunted me. “You’re still a filthy muggle. No. You’re even worse than a filthy muggle. You’re a filthy mudblood.”

The way that John spat the word out made it clear that it was a foul word, one that he meant to stab me with. I staggered back to my feet. Some of my daring that had flooded me with his previous attack returned.

“I will curse you for that, John Umbridge,” I cried, and began chasing after him.

He fled, as only bullies can. I chased him down the carpeted halls of Cracknell Hall, until he reached the parlor that I hated above all other rooms. My Aunt Umbridge was there, and it suited her. It was a handsomely proportioned room, but was hideously appointed with pink draperies and couches. She had arrayed the walls with wallpaper of birds, and boasted of the price more often than was polite, but the birds always seemed to me to be frozen and terrified in the cages of the wallpaper.

“Mummy, mummy.”

“There is no one by the name of Mummy here, John.” Her voice was sickly.

John took a great gasping breath and I hid next to the open door, where I could hear but not see the proceedings. I wished to know the extent of my punishment before I was forced to bear it.

“Mother,” John said, “Hermione threatened-“

“For Merlin’s sake,” my aunt snapped, all sweetness form her voice gone, “I told you to avoid that mongrel. I will hear nothing more.”

“But Mother-“

“She will be gone soon enough,” she said. “Surely you can ignore the mudblood for a few weeks longer.”

I slipped away before the conversation was finished. I did not care to be caught eavesdropping, as I was confident that my aunt’s council to John would not be extended to herself if she caught me. But I had learned something important. My days here would not be much longer. I rejoiced at this, and hasted back to the library, bringing more books with me. There was so much more to learn before I left.

It was no great surprise to me, then, that the next week there was a knock at the nursery door. What did surprise me was that it was not Tips coming with a tray to tempt my appetite, or even Shannon and Becky to collect dirty clothes for washing. It was my Aunt Umbridge.

“You have a visitor,” she said, and her beady eyes swept over me. My unruly curls were tied back in an impatient plait so they would distract me from reading. My dress was a cast offs of Georgiana’s, too small and worn in the sleeves. “I would suggest you smarten up-“ her lips curled, “but it seems that would do no good. Come with me.”

We were led to the parlor, where in a contrast to the bright and plump decor there was a lean man, clad entirely in black. My aunt ushered me to a couch directly opposite from him.

“You must be my new charge.” His words were drawled and said with a sneer.

I had no idea how to respond and decided to proceed with politeness.

“Yes. I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, and the room suddenly seemed cold. “I have heard much about you Miss Granger. Your aunt assures me that you are a wicked child, a liar, and a slouch.” His eyes raked over me and finally met mine. They were black and fathomless, and reminded me of stories of pits of monsters from Greek myths. “She did not mention your carelessness.”

“My- carelessness, sir?” I could tell this man had some importance, and I wanted desperately for him to have a good opinion of me.

His answer was cutting. “No young woman of worth would greet a visitor looking like a scullery maid. Careless and soft in the head, it seems.”

The answer that I longed to make, that I had no idea I would be greeting a visitor and that as an unwanted guest at Cracknell Hall I had no silk gowns, no leather slippers, was at the tip of my tongue. But this did not seem a man who would allow any disagreement, and I still had no idea of his purpose here, and so I swallowed my pride. 

“Tell me, Miss Granger, why do you think I am here?”  


“I do not know, sir.” My voice was so soft that I was afraid he would not hear it. But evidently he did, and he liked that answer.

“Miss Granger, my name is Professor Severus Snape.” This was said with a lift of his chin, emphasizing how impressive he found his own title. “I am the headmaster at Prince’s Magical Preparatory Academy for Witches. Your aunt has secured a position for you at my school. I am here to-“ here his lips curled as if he was about to smile- “your intelligence, so that we might place you at your appropriate level. Now, tell me, do you want to go to Prince’s Magical Preparatory Academy for Witches?”

He seemed a cruel man, but yet it was an escape. “Yes sir.”

“Good. And now tell me, what do you think of muggle?”

“I know no muggles, sir.” 

“But are dirty, filthy creatures, are they not?”  


I had never met a muggle, but my aunt Umbridge and Professor Snape both seemed to despise them. As they both seemed to despise me as well, it seemed to me that I might quite like muggles. 

“I should not say that, sir, because I have never known a muggle. But my mother and father were muggles, my aunt Umbridge tells me so, and I should not like to hate those who have begotten me.”

It seemed a fairly reasoned answer to me, and yet Professor Snape was shaking his head before I finished speaking.

“She lacks a proper witches’ pride. Now, you said that her magic never manifested?”  


“Not until recently, and it was only at the insistence of a mediwitch that she was tested. It seems her powers must be weak and her capacity mean.”

Now I do know the ways that a young witch comes into her powers, and I know how easy such signs can be ignored. My aunt always insisted that any magic was John’s or Georgiana’s, convinced that my heritage made magic of my own an impossibility. As a young girl I knew nothing of the lies she spouted by her insistence, only that this seemed desperately unfair.

“Of course,” Professor Snape responded. “You have handed me an impossible case here, Mrs. Umbridge- a surly, foolish, weak creature.”

“But you will take her?” My Aunt Umbridge fussed. Her smile was looking pained, and her eyes wild.

“I would not dream of keeping her here with you.” His voice was oily, and it made me itch with hatred. School had so long been a beacon of brightness, but now the thought of attending his school was making my stomach plunge. “We at Prince’s Magical Preparatory Academy for Witches specialize in impossible cases. We will give her the tools she needs to live with- dignity.” That last word seemed a threat.

“Then we are in accord,” my Aunt Umbridge said, and she dismissed me, ringing for tea from Tips. 

That evening my aunt Umbridge summoned me once again to the parlor. 

“I have told Becky to pack your items. You leave in two days.”

I was silent with this news. Cracknell Hall had been a prison for me as long as I could remember. But I had the dreadful feeling that I was leaving one prison for the next. 

“You must be grateful for all I’ve done for you,” she continued. “Not everyone would give shelter to you like I would. It’s only polite to thank your benefactress.”

I had always tried to humble myself before her. For a long time I thought that if I was good, my aunt might come to love me. But no love had come, and then my method turned to avoiding detection. That had not worked. She had still lied and slandered me to strangers, and I now feared what I had so ardently hoped for. I could now properly say that I loathed my aunt, and this loathing allowed me to speak. 

“You have given me less shelter than a stray cat in a storm receives,” I spoke, and shock and fury flashed across my aunt’s face. 

“How dare you! I have given you nothing but love and generosity from the goodness of my heart!” She was shrieking at me, and I realized with a start that I was almost as tall as she. I pressed myself up to my full height and met her gaze.

“My dear aunt Umbridge, you must not tell lies,” I said, repeating the charge she had often laid against me, and a thrill went through me. 

The calmer I grew the more erratic my aunt became. She reached for her wand, muttering to herself about my ungrateful heart.   


“Just a small curse,” she said, and a pang hit me. I had never been cursed, despite the poor treatment I had endured here. But my bravery remained as she stretched out her wand with a cruel smile.

“And how would my uncle feel about you breaking your promise?”

My aunt went still.

“What did you say?” she hissed, her eyes wide and fearful.

“I said, and how would my uncle feel about you breaking your promise? The promise you granted to him before he died? I do think he would be upset to hear that you failed to keep your vow.”

Aunt Umbridge lowered her trembling wand and there was hatred in her eyes, but she was listening to me. I wished to say more, but some instinct was stopping me. I met her eyes and hers darted away from mine. 

“I would never harm you, my dear,” my aunt finally said. Her coloring was high and her breath was rapid. “Nor turn you out. You wish to go to school, do you not? I am not forcing you.”

Dumbfounded at the turn of conversation, I only nodded. 

“You leave in two days,” my aunt said, and then turned to sweep out of the room. “Tips!” She called, and Tips appeared with a crack. bowing. “Keep the vermin out of my sight.”

Tips escorted me back to the nursery, where I laid in bed with Hestia and wept. I had won against my aunt. It was my first victory and I could taste the triumph on my tongue. But more than any victory what I craved was love. And there was none to be found here. 

 


	4. Chapter Three: Prince’s Magical Preparatory Academy for Witches

Chapter Three: Prince’s Magical Preparatory Academy for Witches

 

 

Tips arrived in my room before sunrise the day I was set to depart. He was carrying with him a tray of porridge, a scone, milky tea, and an orange, as well as a clothbound lunch. No doubt he intended to wake me, but I was already awake and dressed. It was the first time in memory that I was to leave Cracknell Hall, and there was a curious energy flowing through me.

“Young miss, yous must eat,” Tips said as he placed the tray before me. 

“I can’t, Tips. I feel as though my stomach is in knots.”

“The journey will be long,” Tips scolded me gently as he began to plait my hair. I gave in and began to eat a few bites of the porridge, and sip the tea. “Yous will needs all your strength.”

“I will miss you, Tips,” I said suddenly, and I heard a sniff behind me. When Tips spoke his voice was shaky.

“Young miss should not worry about old Tips,” he said. He was taking far longer to plait my hair than he normally did, but I did not protest. I would miss Tips, the only kind and gentle soul to live in Cracknell Hall. 

Tips urged me to eat more, but I found I could not. My stomach was so filled with my excitement and my anxiety that there was simply no room for food. When Tips was convinced that I would not eat any more food he grasped my valise and escorted me downstairs. In my valise was everything I owned- a few hand-me-down dresses, Hestia, and two favorite books, which I had stolen from the library so long ago my Aunt Umbridge must have forgotten she owned them. Downstairs Becky was waiting in the entry hall.

“You’ve taken long enough,” she groused at Tips. “Now the mistress’ breakfast will be delayed.”

Tips was the one who would prepare the breakfast, but he did not seem worried. 

“Goodbye, young miss,” he said, and with a bow he disappeared, likely to the kitchen. I had the curious feeling that I should not see him again. 

“Hurry, now,” Becky said, and she strode out the front door. I grasped my valise and hurried after her down the lane. She made her way to the front gate, where I joined her.

“I don’t see why she couldn’t just have you do this yourself,” Becky sighed, then raised her arm with a wand in her hand. Suddenly a large carriage, two stories in height and royal purple, appeared. A man sprung down from the driver’s seat, where he was holding the reins. There were no horses in the harnesses. It was so strange that I had to look twice. 

“Welcome to the Knight Carriage, the finest way to get where you’ve got to go,” the man said. He had a smooth, well-prepared manner of a snake oil salesman, and as he smiled at me I was inclined to like him. Oh, how little it took! How neglected I was! “My name is Bert and I’ll be your driver this lovely morn. Where to?” He turned his smile to Becky, who stiffened and pushed me forward. 

“Cokeworth. For her.”

“Six sickles for Cokeworth,” Bert declared. Becky scowled, then opened the money bag around her waist and counted out six sickles. She handed them to Bert, who gave her a cheeky grin.

“Thanks, lovey.”

“And I’ll be wanting a receipt,” Becky said sternly. Bert did not respond. Instead he loaded my valise on the back of the carriage and escorted me into its body.

There was a grand staircase leading to the second level of the carriage, but I chose to remain on the first. It was filled with low, plush sofas, a few of which already had people on it. An older woman was bent over her needlepoint, and a man was reading the paper. I became acutely aware that my books were still in my valise, but as I turned to inform Bert, I found he was gone, and the carriage took off with a kick. 

The couches swayed with the motion of the carriage and I took a seat in one, feeling the motion through my body. I was grateful that I had not eaten all the meal Tips had made for me. The countryside was moving through my windows far more quickly than I thought it was possible. I gaped in amazement. 

“It’s the thestrals, girl,” said the witch who was now rummaging through her purse as her needlepoint continued without her. “They’re far faster than other horses.”

I murmured my thanks, my nerves overtaking even my thirst for knowledge. 

The countryside rolled past as the sun rose. Sometimes it seemed as though suddenly we had moved to a completely different part of the country, moving from forest to plains to hills every time I dared look away. I fought my anxiety by focusing on the grand unchanging scenery. It was the first time outside of books I had seen such variance. 

The carriage made stops and people exited or entered without rhythm. The man with the newspaper, which had moving pictures, left at a beautiful village called Hogsmeade, and a young couple took his place in a dreary looking town called Hag-On-Thames. Another, younger man entered in London, where I craned my neck for a chance to see something exciting, and exited in the country of Godric’s Hollow. We stopped for lunch in a village called Krup’s Twist. There was an inn where many of the other passengers bought their meal from, but my aunt had given me no money. I tried to nibble on the food that Tips had packed for me. I was grateful for his foresight and care, but scarcely hungry. Still I did my best with the cheese and bread that he provided, and I saved the apple for a later date. 

We continued on our journey, passing through more towns and villages with names like Ottery St Catchpole, Gateshead, and Falmouth. I began to doze, experiencing for the first time the exhaustion that comes from travel. And it was lucky that I did, for I missed the entrance into Cokeworth.

I woke with a start as the carriage came to a stop, and glanced wildly around. “Cokeworth!” Bert bellowed, and I hurried out. 

“You didn’t say where in Cokeworth,” Bert said casually, “but it seemed that Prince’s is where you’re heading, yes?”

“Yes, that’s where,” I said, trying to sound confident.

Bert gestured to a large home surrounded by a gate. “And so that’s where we’ve brought you.” He handed me my valise. “Good luck to you.”

I bit my lip and headed up the gate. When I turned to thank Bert the carriage had disappeared. 

I found I could not open the gate, but it was no matter. Scarcely a minute had passed before a tall young woman made her way down the walk.

“You must be Miss Hermione Granger,” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” I said. Was it correct to curtsey? It seemed only polite, and so I did so. She seemed pleased with my choice.

“You’ve just arrived in time for supper,” she said. “Come along.” She walked briskly back towards the house without opening the gate. 

Foolishly I grasped at it, only to find my hand went through the gate. My breath hitched. This was more magic. I walked through the gate, feeling as if I was walking through a sheet of cold water. 

The woman escorted me to a large hall on the bottom floor of the school. It was an old-fashioned house, without any decorations or ornamentation. There was one elegant parlor, and the rest was dreary. I hurried to keep up with her.

She led me to a large stone room slightly downstairs that was filled with girls, all who were in grey dresses and cloaks. They were seated at four long tables, and each was hurriedly eating some stew on a plate. The woman pointed me to an open space at the end of the furthest table, and I sat and a plate appeared. I still was not very hungry, despite having scarcely eaten all day. But I took a few tentative bites. The meat was stringy and the potatoes were soft, and it was not nearly as hot as I wished it were. But it was no matter. After a few bites the food from my plate disappeared, as it did from everyone else’s plates. 

There was a great wave of movement after the meal disappeared, and the woman reappeared with directions for me to follow her. We went up three flights of stairs to an attic that was laid out with rows of beds. Each girl was getting ready for bed, dressing and brushing and washing and chatting. I was shown one bed that I would be sharing with my new bedmate, a quiet girl whose name was Hannah. I did as the rest of them did, and undressed, then slipped into a nightgown. 

The lights were extinguished save one candle, floating at the end of the room. One older woman who seemed to be a teacher was reading from a book, and other teachers patrolled the room, keeping us quiet. I was tired after my day of travel, so tired that I had a difficult time listening to the words said.I grasped Hestia close and held her to my chest as I drifted off to sleep. Whatever this strange new place was, it could not be worse than Cracknell Hall. 

It was cold when I woke. It was so cold that the wash water had frozen in the basins and none of us were able to attend to our toilet. The teachers hurried us through dressing and we were sent down the stairs, where a terrible smell hit my nose.

“They’ve burned the porridge again,” one of the older girls whispered to her friend, and they both made wretched faces. I sat at one of the tables- the order did not seem to matter here. Everyone else sat as well and there was silence throughout the hall. Suddenly our meals appeared- a bowl of porridge, and a cup of coffee. 

The porridge was indeed burnt. It was harsh and sharp on the tongue, and it was difficult to eat. I could not stand the taste, but my stomach was protesting at yesterday’s lack of food. I ate a few bites, and then drank the coffee to try to fill my stomach. The coffee was scalding hot and burnt my mouth, and the taste was bitter. I did not care for the coffee, but it would at least warm me. I wondered if this treatment would continue, and if I should soon miss Cracknell Hall. There I had been ignored and mistreated, but Tips always ensured that I was warm and fed. 

The food disappeared quickly enough from the plates as it had yesterday night, and then we were escorted to classrooms. The tall young woman who had escorted me in yesterday pulled me aside. I learned her name was Miss Phryne, and she was to assess me for my placement. She placed a book in my hand and had me read a bit for her, and then she inquired about some simple maths problems. She seemed pleased about my abilities in those regards, and then she handed me a wand and told me to recite a simple incantation. 

I grasped the wand. It felt cool in my hand. “ _Igniculus”_ , I said.

Nothing happened. I was left holding the wand, feeling quite dumb.

“That’s all right,” Miss Phryne said in what she meant to be a soothing voice. “We’ll just place you in the beginner's group.”

“Wait,” I said, forcing myself to speak. I could do this task. This was the reason I was here at Prince’s, rather than in the hated comfort of Gateshead. “What does this spell do?”

“It’s meant to send sparks,” Miss Phryne said, gentleness coloring her tone.

I closed my eyes. I could imagine sparks coming out from the hearth. They always flew up past the flames. So the wand too should be pointed up. “ _Igniculus,_ ” I said, imagining a spark trailing up my arm through the wand held aloft.

There was a gasp, and my eyes flew open. Indeed, golden sparks were leaving the wand. Miss Phryne was studying me now.

“And you have never held a wand before, you said?” Miss Phryne asked. I shook my head. “We’ll place you in the beginner's group for the time being. You wouldn’t want to miss any knowledge, would you?” Miss Phryne asked as she saw my mouth open to protest my place. She had found me out, and quickly. I shook my head.

I was led into a room that had several small clusters of girls. Miss Phryne gestured for me to join one of them. There was one textbook and one wand between six of us, and we took turns passing around the book and waving the wand, trying to make the book fly.

This wand was even colder to the touch than the one that Miss Phryne had me use. It was a shabby thing. The wood was chipped and paint peeling. I had no luck with making the book fly. No one in our circle did. Around the room there was a clatter of noises. Some older girls in the corner were attempting to turn a cup into a frog, and a few succeeded. I would be like them. I would succeed. But nothing I did could make the book fly. 

After our attempt at spell casting came a lecture about historical events I had never heard, the Goblin Wars. They sounded fascinating, but the teacher, a Miss Meadows, did not dwell on the fascinating story of it all. Instead she recited facts as though we should memorize- how many galleons spent, how many goblins dead, how many wizards injured. I longed for a pen and paper to write this all down, and even more for a book to read more of myself, but neither were available. She then followed this lecture with another lecture on potion making and the purposes of an herb called dittany. This was all new information for me and I resolved after the lesson to ask Miss Meadows about a book that might help me learn more. 

I did not have the chance after the lesson, for a new teacher arrived, tall and well dressed in an elegant purple cloak. Each pupil sat taller as she approached, and there was a warm smile on her face.

“Good morning students,” this woman said.

“Good morning Miss Ellery,” the class responded as one. 

“I have heard of the burnt porridge for breakfast this morning,” she said, her eyes sweeping the assembled. “And so you shall each have luncheon today to bring out to the garden.”

There was a stir of excitement with the students. Miss Meadows looked alarmed. 

“The girls are to find dittany today,” she said, and Miss Ellery offered a compassionate smile towards Miss Meadows.

“Miss Meadows, I firmly believe that these young ladies are capable of eating and searching both.”

It was a kind, compassionate way of asserting her authority, and I did not miss how Miss Meadows slunk back. Miss Ellery left the classroom, and a buzz of conversation began. 

“Quiet, now,” Miss Meadows insisted, and we fell back into an uneasy silence. 

It was bitterly cold outside. I had a borrowed cloak that was not properly lined, but I also had a sandwich of meats that was filling the hunger in my stomach. I ate it quickly, treasuring the feeling of a full belly, and then went to find Miss Meadows, who was scanning the yard of girls with hawk-like eyes.

“What is it?” She said as I approached her. Her voice was sharp. 

“Miss Meadows, I wondered if you might have some books on potion-making that I could read.” It was a simple request, and I thought it would be an easy yes. But I was wrong.

Miss Meadows drew her eyebrows together. “Why?” 

“I- should like to learn more.” I had only imagined a joyous reaction from my teacher, glorious in gratitude that her pupil should want to study such ideas. I had not expected resistance.

“If you had paid attention in my lecture you would not need books,” Miss Meadows said and looked away from me. “Now go. I am told little girls need fresh air.” Her voice made it clear that little girls were a terrible scourge.

I went. There was a bench not far that I sat on in a daze. I had not even noticed that someone else was sitting there until she spoke.

“She doesn’t much like people learning, Miss Meadows.”

I turned and saw a girl with blonde hair so long it almost reached the bench and enormous blue eyes. She was reading a book stamped with the gold title of _An Account of the Exhaustive Search and Near Capture of the Crumple Horned Snorkack_. 

“I’m Luna, by the way,” the girl said, and offered a genuine smile. “Luna Lovegood.”

“I’m Hermione Granger,” I said, and Luna nodded. 

“I saw you today in class. Miss Meadows doesn’t care for teaching much. There are some books in the storeroom that you can borrow, including some on potions.”

“Is that where you got this book from?” I gestured towards her reading material.

“Oh no. Daddy sent me this. Once I’ve finished here we’re going to hunt for a Crumpled Horned Snorkack.” She passed me the book to show me an illustration of a hideous purple beast with a hump on the back and a horn on its head. “No one believes they exist, but Daddy and I will find it.”

It did not look like any beast that could exist, but I held my judgment. She was the first person here who had been kind to me and I did not wish to alienate her. 

“Do the other teachers feel the same as Miss Meadows?” I asked instead. Luna shook her head.

“Oh no.” Her voice was gentle and airy. “Miss Phryne is always eager to teach, but can sometimes be a bit impatient. Miss Arden believes very much in everything she teaches.”  


“I do not think I’ve met Miss Arden yet,” I said. Luna gently closed her book.

“You will this afternoon. Miss Arden teaches needlepoint and other household tasks. Professor Snape believes very firmly that young ladies must learn domestic arts.”

“And what about Miss Ellery?”

A gentle smile graced Luna’s face. “Miss Ellery is lovely and kind and wants only the best for each student. We are lucky to have her here. She is far kinder than Professor Snape, and she is in charge when he is gone.”

“How often is Professor Snape here?”

“Often enough that you will see him.”

At this we were called to find dittany by Miss Meadows, and soon enough made our way back inside, away from the bitter cold and my first warm conversation at Prince’s Magical Preparatory Academy for Witches. 


	5. Chapter 4: Such Grand Cruelty

Chapter 4: Such Grand Cruelty

 

 

My first month at Prince’s was miserable. The food did not improve in quality, nor did the portions increase. The building was drafty and the air bitterly cold in my lungs. When we students would complain about the cold we were informed by Miss Meadows that was what warming spells were for. It did not matter to Miss Meadows that there was only one wand for every four pupils, or that we were strictly forbidden from taking the wands outside of the classroom. A rumor went around the schoolyard that Miss Meadows was a squib, which was why she was so cruel to us. This did not seem a sufficient reason to despise Miss Meadows, and I made my opinion clear on that matter. Her indifference to us was enough reason.

My distaste for insulting Miss Meadows’ birth did not go over well with some of the girls at the schoolyard. I comforted myself by remaining in the certainty that I was right, and that many great men and women- and I supposed witches and wizards- had endured shunning and hardship for their right opinion. I was used to being alone. But here at Prince’s I had found something that I had never experienced, and had little idea what to do with- a friendship. 

Luna was often alone as well. She was an odd duck, with her airy voice and wide, unblinking eyes. At first she unnerved me. I was used to cruelty, conscious and hidden both. The other girls had a sharp, hard-bitten look to them. Life had been cruel to them. I understood that cruelty. I had lived the same cruelty. But Luna was kind to everyone, no matter their treatment of her. I sought her out for her kindness, and then found that I liked spending my time with Luna. She was clever, though she believed the most extraordinary things. And she had a way of seeing deep into a person’s soul.

She saw my frustration one day when after a week of work I could still not make the blessed book float. As we were dismissed to the garden after lessons she locked her arm through mine and beamed gently at me. 

“You do not need to prove you’re a witch,” she said, as if we were in the middle of a conversation. “We all know you are. It will come easier with time.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” I stuttered. It was a shock to hear that the fears I battled with every evening spoken out loud. I instinctively twisted around, but no one seemed to be listening, and I almost tripped over my cloak.

“Miss Granger! Watch where you’re stepping!” Miss Meadow bellowed as she led us out.

“It’s alright. I was nervous too,” Luna continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “But you’re doing quite well.

In the garden other girls ran about while Luna and I read side by side on the bench, until Miss Meadows found us guilty of some infraction and made us walk the garden perimeter.

We had classes at Prince’s in the morning and afternoon, six days a week. We were to spend an hour break in the garden at noon and to tend to our needlework that would make us prized and economic housewives one day after lessons and before supper. Only on Sundays was our routine different. Then we were treated to a long lecture after breakfast on the dangers of the Dark Arts. Miss Ellery had given every lecture since I had arrived, and she was an engaging and interesting speaker. After lecture we were given a light tea, including sandwiches that we ate in an unladylike frenzy, and then were granted the freedom to do what we wished until dinner.Luna and I both were fond of disappearing with a book into the garden, and reading together, then talking, and then reading more. Those Sundays had become my favorite day, a respite from the drudgery of Prince’s. 

But after a month of Sundays one came that was quite distressing. The whisper started to float around the room as we were dressing that a carriage had pulled up. And not just any carriage- the carriage of Professor Snape. 

The mood in the room was suddenly anxious. Friends straightened each other’s dresses and faces were washed twice.I looked around with uncertainty. It seemed that I should be doing something, but I had no idea what. I settled for retying my shoes, ugly and sturdy ones that had been given to me a week after my arrival to be able to walk through the garden. 

Miss Arden hurried us downstairs, where there were three people in the classroom who were not customarily there. There was Professor Snape, clad entirely in black and talking with Miss Ellery, who had deep furrows in her brow as she listened to Professor Snape. There was a sour-faced older woman. And there was an elegantly dressed girl our age, glaring at individual members of the assembled.

I could not believe the sight of this girl. She was elaborately coiffed in striped navy and silver silk. She was not wearing a bonnet like the assembled students. Instead her hair was loose about her shoulders. This was not customary, but what was truly shocking was the color of her hair. It was silver in color in some places, and blue in the others. It was as her hair had been painted to match her gown. It was gleaming in bouncy curls, the sort that would take Becky hours to arrange on Georgiana. I had never seen anything like it, and it was when I felt Luna’s nudge I realized I had been staring. 

“That is Delphini Riddle,” Luna whispered. “She is Professor Snape’s ward. The woman is Euphimia Rowle. She is her nursemaid.”

“I did not know blue hair was possible,” I whispered back, then realized everyone else had fallen silent. Professor Snape stepped forward, and scanned the crowd with his dark, fathomless eyes. The silence stretched for longer than I thought it could, taught and heavy. 

“I understand that there has been a luncheon served to you since I was last here,” he began, and cast a withering glare at Miss Ellery, who stood straight-backed and with her eyes forward. “And not one of you refused this. How disappointing.”

I could feel his displeasure from my place deep in the crowd. Guilt built in my stomach, and it felt strange. The act of refusing food was not a virtue I was acquainted with.

“When your teachers coddle you with extra food, or healing potions” here his lips lifted into a snarl, “or warming spells, you may think they are being kind. But they are damaging you. The Dark Arts will not care for your comfort. So why ought your teachers?”

His voice was quiet but carried across the room over the assembled. I had a sudden mad urge to shout and had to swallow it down. It was clear that everyone feared him. I had learned from my time at Cracknell Hall that listening to my fear could protect me from harm. Next to him Delphini Riddle beamed at us, a bright and disquieting sight. 

“Fine silks will not protect you from the Dark Arts,” he continued. “A child’s cleverness will not protect you from the Dark Arts. Learning and listening from your teachers will. This is why you will strive for obedience in all things.”

Had he not just expressed his displeasure at us for accepting food that was given to us? It seemed contradictory and cruel. As I was trying to sort out what he wanted he pointed to a girl in the audience.

“You. Stand there.”

A tall girl in a dress ending a few inches above her ankles came and stood at the head of the assembled where Professor Snape had been pointing. 

“What is your name, girl?” he asked, his eyes glittering dangerously.

“Julia Severn, sir,” she responded, her head hung. I had a pit in my stomach from watching them. 

“Miss Ellery,” Professor Snape said, turning his back to Julia. “Why is Miss Severn’s dress short?”

“There is not enough fabric for a longer dress, Professor Snape.” Miss Ellery’s voice was calm and steady and she met Professor Snape’s eye without a single sign of fear.

“Are you not a witch, Miss Ellery? There should be enough fabric for every girl here.” Professor Snape jeered. I recognized the tenor of his voice. It was the same as John’s, or Aunt Umbridge’s, and fury coursed through my body at his treatment of Miss Ellery.

“There is only so much stretching that fabric will take until it tears, even with magic,” Miss Ellery responded. “As you well know we prize ourselves here at Prince’s Magical Preparatory Academy for Witches on our economical nature. We stretch the fabric as much as we can, and then we turn to other solutions, sir.”

It was a difficult point to argue, and Professor Snape knew this. He turned back onto Julia. “Sit back down,” he hissed, and Julia Severn complied as quickly as possible. Those eyes then turned back to the audience. 

“Neither will vanity protect you,” he said as if in a trance as his eyes rested on me. His lips curled into the closest thing to a smile I had yet seen on his face. “You,” he said, pointing to me. “Stand.”

I made the terrible pilgrimage to the space Julia had recently vacated. 

“And what is your name, girl?”

He knew. He knew and he was playing with me, and the injustice of it roiled. It took me a few seconds before I felt confident of speech.

“Hermione Granger. Sir,” I added on, fearful at the slip I had almost made.

“Miss Ellery, why is Miss Granger’s hair in curls? You know such vanities are not permitted here.” He was staring at the few stray curls that had escaped my bonnet. I longed to flatten them, to hide them better. I understood now why all the girls had been so careful with their appearance while dressing this morning. It was not vanity, as Professor Snape would say, but an armor. 

“Miss Granger’s hair curls naturally,” Miss Ellery said, her voice soft and steady. 

“The prohibition is not on girls from dressing their hair in curls, but in curls,” Professor Snape said. “I wish them cut off.”

There was a gasp in the crowd. My own heart was pounding. I could only see those before me- Miss Ellery and Professor Snape and his attendants. Miss Riddle was smirking at me, her own hair in perfectly arranged corkscrew curls. 

“But not with a spell, Miss Ellery,” Snape continued. “The muggle way. With a sword.”

“A sword, sir?” Miss Ellery said after a long pause, confusion on her face.

“My dear Miss Ellery, you did not know? Miss Granger is a mudblood. It is only charitable to treat her in a way that she is accustomed to. Muggles cut their hair with swords, and therefore Miss Granger will receive the same treatment.”

I felt as I often did when listening to Luna speak about some fantastical animal. There was no way that this could possibly be true. But I had no evidence to support such a position and no other alternative to suggest. And even if I did, my speaking out would only make my situation more unsteady.

“Miss Ellery, kindly call for a sword.” 

There was wild panic rising in my throat. 

“I am afraid, sir, that we do not keep a sword on hand.” Miss Ellery did not sound sorry. She sounded, for the very first time, worried.

“Then, Miss Ellery, I expect that Miss Granger’s hair will be attended to by my return.”

I was safe, if only for this moment, but my blood ran cold at the next words.

“It is time we learn about the dangers of mudbloods.”

I was made to stand at attention for the remainder of the lecture. The assembled were told that I was foolish, dirty, and grasping. I would foul anyone who came into contact with me. I was easily corrupted and weak-minded. The kindest thing that could be granted to me was pity. The wisest thing would be a refusal to engage with me. Anyone who associated with me must share my unsavory tendencies. Blood traitors could not be trusted, but they could be rehabilitated. A mudblood could never be cured.

Throughout the lecture there was silence. The sour-faced woman seemed bored, as though she was lectured about the dangers of mudbloods every day. Perhaps she was. Miss Riddle was beaming, overjoyed at my pain. The only thing that kept me from bursting into tears was Miss Ellery. Her jaw was tight and her hands were balled into fists, even as she stared straight ahead. She was angry, I realized. More than angry, she was furious. And so I counted my breaths as I kept my eyes down, trying very hard to tamp my anger down. And I succeeded, until the very end of his speech.

“And it is the duty of every mudblood, then, to subject herself to a pureblood. It is what they are good for, and only then may she find happiness. Is not that right, Miss Granger?”

It took a moment before I realized I had been addressed, and was a moment more for me to realize what was said. I remained silent. 

“Miss Granger, as a pureblood I am your superior. Is that not right, Miss Granger?”  


“No sir,” I said, my eyes cast down, my fingers gripping my gown so tightly I feared it would be torn. There came a gasp from the audience. 

“That is not the correct answer, Miss Granger. Let us try again. I am your superior, Miss Granger. What say you?”

“No sir,” I said, my voice louder, and I raised my eyes to meet him. Miss Riddle looked fearful. But Professor Snape seemed pleased at my rebellion.

“Here is an example of the willful, proud, foolish mudblood. I will have compassion on her. It is not her fault, but she must be taught. And so she will hang from her wrists until supper tonight. Miss Meadows,” Professor Snape said, seeming to recognize that Miss Ellery would not be his ally in this, “take her to the classroom.”

I was hustled away to the classroom, where silver manacles had appeared on the wall. And there I was attached, as people lolled around me and looked on fearfully. They were all warned not to speak to me, but encouraged to look and jeer. Snape gave me one final glance. It was not with fury, as I expected, but with triumph. I became angry with myself for giving him what he had wanted. He swept out before I could dwell long in my anger, followed by Miss Riddle. She too looked deeply pleased. 

The room slowly emptied, but Luna remained. She sat on a chair, in the middle of the room, and opened a book. And then, addressing her comments to anyone around, she began to read out loud. 

It was another book of spectacular animals, the sort that I disbelieved in. But Luna’s voice was soothing, and she offered asides and comments, telling us all that an Augury didn’t cry for death, it cried for rain, and that there was some great lizard that muggle had named a dragon of some sort, but it could not fly nor breath fire. It was a distraction and a balm, and I do now believe that if it had not been for her I would have lost myself to my anger and hurt that day. I should have carried it and nursed that anger in my bosom, never to be free from its teeth. But she remained, and she continued reading out loud to a few other girls who lingered for her benefit more than mine. She read until Miss Phryne came in and unlocked me an hour before supper. Luna then gently closed her book, placed her arm around me, and accompanied me to the garden, where she let me cry on her shoulder in silence. 


	6. Chapter 5: Tea with Milk and Sugar

Chapter 5: Tea with Milk and Sugar

 

 

I did not speak for the remainder of that evening. Neither did all of the girls who had been assembled around me. In my hurt and humiliation at that time I believed that it was cruelty. Now I recognize it as the failed attempts at sympathy performed by those who are embarrassed by their own presence. But I could not know it then. 

No one spoke to me besides Luna that evening. No one spoke the next day during lessons. It was only out in the garden again the next day, shivering violently and trying to staunch my tears that I burst.

“They all hate me now,” I cried, my voice a harsh and wailing sound. “They find me contemptible.”

“No,” Luna promised, her voice soft and soothing. Her large, luminous eyes were soft as they turned to me. “They do not find you contemptible. You have lived the fear of every young woman who attends Prince’s. This is their sympathy”

“But they despise me for being a mudblood,” I insisted, my voice shaking. I was very close to breaking into treacherous, cursed tears once again. 

“Perhaps a few do,” Luna allowed, her face twisting with the word I had used. “But most witches here live in fear and hatred of Professor Snape, and distrust every word that leaves his mouth. They would be much more inclined to despise you if he had singled you out for praise. Do not be afraid.”

I was sitting on a hard stone bench and I folded my body over into itself. My head ducked into my arms and I began to shake. 

Luna wrapped her arms around me. I was not used to being touched, and it was a curious feeling, stifling and warm. Luna had been touching me now for over a month, and I allowed my body to relax into her embrace. 

“It will be alright,” Luna whispered. “I promise.”

“But I had just begun to learn,” I whispered. “And now Professor Snape shall make me leave here, and leave you.” I had not loved being at Prince’s, but the fear of being forced to leave was worse than the prospect of remaining.

“You will not,” Luna said, just as the crisp voice of Miss Ellery voice rang out.

“Miss Granger,” she said from behind me. “Ah, and Miss Lovegood.” 

The prospect of speaking with Miss Ellery was terrifying, but ignoring her was worse. I unfolded myself and stood at attention, my eyes cast down.

“Miss Granger, there’s no need to look so downcast,” Miss Ellery said, and she sounded perfectly ordinary. She did not sound angry- either with me or with Professor Snape. “I would simply like for you and Miss Lovegood to join me in my office.”

Miss Ellery’s office was in an outbuilding across the garden from the school. It was stone, like the main building where we lived and attended classes, but this stone seemed sturdy. There were no cracks for the wind to come through. Her office was decorated with rich colors, with a cheery fire in the grate. The walls were lined with a tapestry of a knight charging a dragon. It was so vividly rendered that the hair from the horses’ mane blew in the wind.

“Yes, that is one of my favorite pieces,” Miss Ellery said as she saw me staring in astonishment. “Sit, please. I will have an elf procure us some tea.”

An elf by the name of Mipsy, dressed in a dirty toga, hurried an enormous tea service into Miss Ellery’s office. I had not seen such abundance in a long time. There were slim sandwiches and thick slices of cake and scones and jams and a dish of beautiful yellow butter. My mouth was open as I gazed at the bounty. And there was tea, steaming hot and accompanied by a bone china bowl of sugar and a pitcher of milk.

“How do you take your tea?” Miss Ellery asked as the teapot began to pour a cup. “Milk and sugar?” 

I nodded, suddenly very hungry at the thought of this bounty. I had almost forgotten that I was here to be punished. The pitcher of milk floated over my cup and began pouring, then a sugar cube began stirring itself. This ritual was repeated with Luna, who did not specify her preference. She was not amazed as I was- I realized that this was not the first time Luna had been to Miss Ellery’s office. The cup floated towards me and I grasped it from the air. 

Could any tea be as delicious as the anticipation of drinking such a tea? It was, and more. Hot and milky and sweet and strong. I drank it greedily.

Miss Ellery thanked Mipsy, who bowed deeply then disappeared. She then turned to me. 

“Miss Granger, do tell me how you fare.”

This was not the opening I expected. The entire experience was foreign to me- I had expected a scolding and here I was being treated with grace. I placed down my teacup onto the saucer, proud that I had barely made a noise.

“I fare well, thank you mum.”

“Miss Granger, you need not hide the truth from me.” Miss Ellery’s voice was gentle, but her words were pointed. “How do you fare? Any young woman would be angry or hurt after what had happened to you.”

I fixed my eyes closely on the teacup. It was a painted scene, of a farm, but the branches of the tree swayed and the cow in the field chewed grass. Aunt Umbridge would have dismissed such a thing as tawdry. She preferred her plates decorated with cats, “a noble animal”, as she proclaimed. I thought that the cup was lovely. I wished ardently that I could one day have such a pretty piece of simple painted china.

I wanted to say the right thing, that Professor Snape had only done what he thought was right, that I was unharmed. I opened my mouth to say such a thing. But I could not lie so, not even when I was in such a den of comfort that was offered to me. 

“Professor Snape is a cruel man,” I said instead. I could feel my eyes burning but I had resolved last night that he would never make me cry again. 

“And you have known much cruelty from your Aunt. Is that not true, Miss Granger?”

No one had ever spoken about my Aunt Umbridge in such a way to me. I stilled, unsure of what to say, and Miss Ellery laid a gentle hand on mine. 

“I have met Madam Umbridge twice now. If she is half as cruel to you as she is to the rest of the world, you are a very unlucky girl indeed.” Miss Ellery’s hand found my chin, and she gently lifted it. “She made a choice to become who she is. She chose a path of anger and has hated everyone who refused to do so as well. You need not follow her path, Hermione. You have a good heart and a clever brain. Choose to use those qualities, instead of nursing bitterness.”

The thought, that I could shape my personality to my will, had never occurred to me. Miss Ellery seemed to understand that she had given me much to ponder, for she granted me a gentle smile. 

“You are not loathsome, Hermione. Neither are you treacherous. You are a smart, kind young witch who has need of love. I believe you will find it in your friendships.” My stomach grumbled. “And you are in need of sustenance.”

Miss Ellery placed two sandwiches on my plate. They were a delicate, soft bread and were filled with a smooth meat paste and grainy mustard. “Please, eat,” she said, and then she turned to Luna.

“And how does your study of runes go?”

“Runic magic is fascinating,” Luna said, and she began an explanation of her current study of runes. She believed that if a spell in runes were read backwards, they could reverse the spell. Miss Ellery listened while nodding. Every few moments she would ask a question, probing Luna. She did all this while monitoring our plates, serving me more sandwiches as the first two disappeared quickly. 

I realized that she was teaching Luna, but teaching her in a way I had never seen. Instead of viewing her knowledge as something to impart, she was shaping a conversation around what Luna knew. Luna did not have all the answers to the questions, nor did Miss Ellery expect her to. The answers seemed almost immaterial. What mattered most that Luna consider the questions, that she not just accept the first answer. I could see Luna’s mind sharpening under the questioning, and I could almost feel mine doing the same simply by listening. 

After the sandwiches had disappeared Miss Ellery served us sturdy slices of lemon cake and refilled our tea as candles flickered on. It had been so long since I had eaten enough to fill my belly completely, and the same length from when I had been fully warm. This was the most wonderful experience. The conversation was moving on to history, and Miss Ellery had included me in the conversation. We discussed witch burning, and she expressed sympathy for the muggles involved. I was shocked, having never heard such a thing.

“Those muggles are the ones who killed our people,” I argued, unknowingly echoing the words of Aunt Umbridge.

Miss Ellery shook her head. “Miss Granger, those who were burned were never witches. It was other muggles. We could have prevented the panic by being more welcoming, or perhaps more careful about who saw our magic. But instead we hid, we let others die for our carelessness, and now we reap the results.”

Miss Ellery had spoken gently, but her voice was firm. There was no room for disagreement. And even if I had wanted to disagree I could find no place to do so. Witches and wizards had abandoned their fellow humans to die. It was a fearful thing.

The conversation moved on to happier places, mentioning people and times that I knew nothing about. Aunt Umbridge rarely spoke of the past besides sniffing that it was a better time then, before there was blood mixing. But the way that Miss Ellery told stories it seemed as though there never had been a better time. She explained that an assassination plot against a King was quashed by a quick dampening spell on some gunpowder, and that it is believed that a prominent wizard cursed a Queen when she refused to marry him, so she never did marry. The stories were fascinating, far more so than the stories Miss Meadows recited. It was not until the candles began to flicker that I caught realization of the late hour.

“I did not know that magical candles could extinguish,” I exclaimed, stifling an enormous yawn.

“They are charmed so that I should never stay too late reading,” Miss Ellery explained, and stood. She helped to fetch our cloaks, and then we crossed the schoolyard to return to our beds. The air was frigid, and a light snow had fallen on the grass while we walked. The snow made a pleasant crunching sound underneath our boots, the whole world dark and still. 

The school was not so warm or cozy as Miss Ellery’s office. She spoke gently with Miss Arden, who was downstairs mending socks and turning out hems, who nodded and did not speak to Luna and I. We crept upstairs to the great sleeping attic. The room was full of the noises of sleeping girls. Miss Ellery left us there. 

Hannah, my bedmate, was already asleep. Luna and I whispered goodnights to each other, and we then changed into our sleeping gown. The room was cold, though not as cold as the schoolyard outside. But my stomach had been filled, and my mind expanded, and I clutched Hestia to my chest tightly and fell asleep quickly.

The next morning came too quickly. I would have been content to sleep for the rest of the day. But instead, I rose with my classmates and attended to my toilette. Breakfast was still mean- a piece of toast barely smeared with butter and a mug of hot, acidic coffee. But as I sat I gave a tentative smile at the girls around me and my smile was returned by those around me. Before lessons, Julia Severn strode out to me.

“I just wanted to check that you are not wallowing,” she said. She was so tall I had to crane my neck to look at her. Her face had the wide planes that seemed right at home with her Northern accent. “Professor Snape has a fair bit of cruelty in him, and you’re a new target for him.”

“I am fine, thank you.” As I reassured her I realized it was true. My shame and embarrassment had been replaced with something new- a drive and desire to consume all knowledge in the world. “He is cruel, but he is harmless.”

Julia nodded, seeming as though she didn’t quite agree with my words. “It’s just a hard thing to recover from, the public humiliation he fancies, and I did not wish for you to think you were alone.”

I thanked her and then lessons began, and we were separated. 

I found myself listening to the lectures differently, as though I was listening again to Miss Ellery and Luna having a conversation. If the goblins were rioting in 1612, why? What made them riot? What did wizards do to push them- for it now seemed inconceivable that wizards and witches were not involved. During Miss Phryne’s transfiguration lesson I found myself smoothly imagining the piece of hay become a needle, and I was successful on my fourth try. I was cheerful on my walk outside with Luna, despite the cold. I smiled again at my companions at dinner.

I did not realize but I was now entering my most glorious phase of life at Prince’s. I progressed with my classes at a rate that impressed my teachers, save Miss Meadows, who could not be impressed. I grew in relationships with those girls around me and became, if not friends, then kind to them. Miss Ellery invited Luna and me for tea repeatedly, where she taught me the beginnings of runic study and French. And Luna and I grew even more close, lingering in the garden for hours as it grew warmer, reading in silence together then excitedly discussing what we had learned.

Prince’s was not perfect. It was small and chilled and I was only ever fully satiated after returning from Miss Ellery’s teas. But I could feel myself growing into a new person, one wiser and stronger. I began to feel grateful for the opportunity to study here, the hated headmaster aside. 

And then the sweating began. 


	7. Chapter 6: The Flowers in Spring

Chapter 6: The Flowers in Spring

 

 

It was unfair that Prince's was becoming lovely with the spring. The snow was melting and running to the river, which was swelling in its banks, becoming vivid and lovely. Crocuses and flutterbushes and snapping-dragons were blooming outside, and I had ample opportunity to become familiar with the flowers. I was spending every spare moment outside, for Prince's was the site of a terrible outbreak of sanguis.

I can still hear the sound of it now. It begins as a cough, a wet, crackling sound that starts at night and does not leave. By that evening the victim will be coughing blood, hence the name. As the blood increases the sufferer's control over their magic diminishes, leading to some terrifying displays of power.

Half the school had emptied at the first signs of sanguis, those girls who were lucky enough to have family who would take them home. Half of those who had remained fell ill, as sanguis is very contagious and no one knows why some fall ill and some do not. The school was a terrible parody of its usual state, filled with murmurs and moans and coughs. The attic bedroom we all shared was scrubbed sterile by house elves, and smelled of vinegar and peppermint for days. We healthy remained there, while the sick were moved to the classrooms. All classes were canceled. Instead, we spent initial days wandering the forest and playing flights of fantasy.

On the fifth day, when all the fires were burning hotter than they had all winter to comfort the shivering girls I overheard a conversation between Miss Meadows and Miss Ellery in the garden. I had escaped with a novel that I wished to discuss with Luna, who was out looking for plimpies. I was deep in my story when their voices caught my attention.

"We've only half a dozen healing potions left," Miss Arden said to Miss Ellery as they were strolling by the garden wall. I ducked behind a bush as they approached, hoping not to be noticed. It sounded as though they were discussing the state of affairs, and I was desperate for information. Desperate enough to eavesdrop on something I knew I should not be eavesdropping on.

"It is as I feared," Miss Ellery said, and let out an almighty sigh. I could imagine her- her posture erect even now, only her eyes betraying how tired she was. "We have run out of medicine and have no money to buy more."

"But surely Professor Snape will provide us with it if we tell him the state of the school," Miss Arden protested.

Miss Ellery laughed, a brittle sound. "Professor Snape fled for the countryside the moment he heard reports of sanguis in town. And he declined to inform us that his own housekeeper had been affected. I have owled him several times, and no owl has been able to find him. No, Miss Arden, we are alone."

"I cannot watch all these girls die," Miss Arden said, and my heart almost stopped.

"I cannot either," Miss Ellery said. "And I will not."

Miss Ellery's voice was determined, and that evening she announced that all of us who were remaining behind were to serve as healers to the afflicted. She told us that if we were not affected, we would not be. We needed to trust her on this. We must have faith.

I was uncertain. I had only read about afflictions in novels, horrific stories made more horrific for the entertainment of the reader. It seemed that in staying behind we would be left blind or lame or otherwise marked by the disease, unless we were pure of heart. Then we would be spared, and some handsome wizard who we had been ministering to would fall in love with our goodness and wish to marry us.

This was the story I knew of illness, and I was scared for my own fate. There were no wizards around for us to minister to, and I was not pure of heart. I still had wicked thoughts about Professor Snape, whose neglect had caused this catastrophe, and my Aunt Umbridge, who would be filled with gratitude if I died. But I had come to trust Miss Ellery, who had given me many times real kindness. And so I joined the other girls in agreeing that we would be healers.

Healing, we soon found, was difficult work. We were put on shifts. Some shifts we served the afflicted. We vanished blood and scrubbed sheets and sponged faces over and over with cold water. When magic was let loose, when a girl would begin to breathe fire or conjure ice from the air, we called for a teacher and were hurried on to the next patient.

I did not enjoy the shifts working as a healer. I did it because it was my duty, but I only ever felt pity and anger. I was not like Luna, who was tender and kind. Luna would read stories and sing songs and when girls were lucid would ask them questions about their families and lives before Prince's. I was not sympathetic. I was only efficient.

When we were not on healing duty we were sent to scavenge the forests, looking for heartbeets and aconite flowers and mandrakes. This was dangerous as well, because the plants we needed were often poisonous, or had poisonous look-alikes. But it was a relief to be away from the stuffy rooms surrounded by the sick. I tried to convince Luna to go on these expeditions with me, but she demurred. She was needed where people were, she told me. She set charms and traps for fantastical creatures to snare the sickness, and she needed to watch them. She told me all this without judgment, giving me the freedom to leave. This generosity of her spirit was part of why I loved her so dearly.

The forest was blooming, and it was here that I could feel young. Out in the air I believed that sickness would not touch me, that the sanguis would be defeated. We lingered longer than we were supposed to, sometimes playing games of spello-tag or having mock duels. In a normal situation we would be scolded for lingering, perhaps beaten with a switch. But our teachers were so preoccupied with nursing the sick that our behavior was scarcely noticed unless we were directly in front of them. After we would return and we saw our teachers, haggard and tired, and heard the moans of our companions, I would feel wracked with guilt for my lack of haste. I would then volunteer to help process the plants, and assisted Miss Meadows with the potioneering.

Finally, I thought with a grim sense of satisfaction, I was able to put the knowledge I had been storing to good use. I helped cut and stir and brew and bottle, and my skin smelled of crushed sage and camphor for weeks after. Outside I felt untethered and while in the classroom I felt fearful. While brewing potions I only felt necessary. As more girls fell sick I was put to brewing more and more, until it became my chief duty.

Some girls recovered, lingering in sickness for a week before the bleeding slowed, then stopped. They were weak and pale afterward but were unscarred. We saw recoveries first. That is what made the first death so horrific.

It was a young girl name Romilda Vane. I had not been fond of her- she was self-important and boastful. But her bleeding cough turned to a bloody nose, which led to blood coming from her eyes. And then waves of color and energy started to linger around her bed, like some horrific combination of Aurora Borealis and the legs of a spider. When she died the energy lingering by her rushed through the room with a furious boom, sending a shock through the body of all present.

I had never seen someone die before. Luna took it with particular difficulty. She had been nursing Romilda, and had hope. Luna had always been a pillar of strength for me, and for me to have to be strong for her was a new sensation. She was quiet, oh so quiet through dinner, scarcely eating the cheese and apples we were given to take to the garden. Her stomach was rumbling, and I begged her to eat, but she could not be convinced. She was only calm and sad, composed and remote. It was only once the call for bedtime rang out that her composure cracked. We had been sharing a bed during the outbreak, as my bedmate Hannah had been rushed away by her parents and Luna's bedmate Helen was still recovering from sanguis. After the candles extinguished I began to hear sniffing.

I reached out to Luna and wrapped my arm around her. Her back was to me, and I was folded into an awkward position, half holding her. She began to shake, and turned towards me. In the light of the moon streaming through the shades I could see the tears.

"Hermione," she whispered, and I pulled her close to me, wrapping both arms around her. This was an awkward feeling, but she would do so for me and so I would do so for her.

"I should have been able to save her," she cried, and her soft voice broke into sobbing. "She was my charge, and I failed her."

I could not convince her otherwise, that she had given Romilda the best care possible, that she had given her love and grace in her final days. That Romilda may have died no matter what, but she died not feeling alone. But none of those words were sufficient, and I held her, stroking her hair until she fell into a still sleep. It was as if I was siphoning her grief into my body, for I could not sleep at all that night, no matter my exhaustion. Luna, who was even more tired than I, slept like the dead.

Romilda was not the only girl who was lost to the sickness. A few more followed the next week, then three in one day. We held funerals for each girl individually, but they were short and sparsely attended. The locals were staying as far away as they could from the school to avoid contracting sanguis. We were given a chance to say goodbye, gathered in a small classroom. Miss Ellery would read to us a poem. I can still remember the opening for the poem she read for Romilda's funeral:

_Remember me when I am gone away,_  
_Gone far away into the silent land;_  
_When you can no more hold me by the hand,  
_ _Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay._

We bid our goodbyes, and then we were ushered out of the room. The evening of each funeral an enormous bonfire was lit in the garden where we were not allowed to go. The ashes were cleared away the next morning. No one spoke of this, the peculiar necessity of burning our bodies.

Nine girls died of sanguis. The final was Luna.

She was the final girl to fall ill with sanguis. She began to cough one night two weeks after Romilda had died. She was immediately moved to the ward that was now almost empty, for all the other sufferers had either succumbed to the sickness or had returned to the land of the well.

I was not allowed to be with her. No one was. Sanguis was a terrible disease, but it generally disappeared quickly. That Luna should be struck with the sickness after everyone was recovering was a worrying matter. Our teachers told us nothing of this, but I was determined to know everything. And so I evesdropped, making certain to be hidden behind a window of the teacher's parlor, where I thought they might speak.

I was correct. That night they gathered and began to toss about wild theories. Miss Phryne was worried that we had an entirely new version of sanguis, one that did not follow the old rules. Miss Arden thought that perhaps Luna was suffering from an entirely new disease. Miss Meadows thought that Luna had done something to herself, that no one else ought to worry because the girl had always been strange. Here I had to grit my teeth to stop contain my rage, and I was so focused on my fury that I almost missed Miss Ellery's response.

"Whatever the cause, she is a girl who is sick," Miss Ellery said, and I imagined her glaring at Miss Meadows as I wished to. "And therefore we will offer whatever comfort we can to her."

The days that followed were strange days, listless and dreadful. The school slowly emptied, as girls who were well returned to families that wanted them. No one who had left initially came back, and I privately thought that no one ever would. The only ones left were the unwanted. Luna's father owled every day- he was in Sweden and unable to return, but he begged for information of her. I wrote him a few letters, telling stories of our times here at Prince's. Miss Meadows and Miss Phryne taught classes, but we all found it difficult to focus, and Miss Meadows in particular scolded us terribly. Every day I begged to go see Luna, but every day I was denied. Instead I spent my time buried in books, searching for a cure. We had been left with a stockpile of potions to fight sanguis, but their effectiveness was not guaranteed. I spent several nights reading by smuggled candles, trying to find a better potion. There were only vague ideas. This seemed cheap, and like a dereliction of duty by potioneers. I could not shake the opinion that if I had more time and resources I could find something that would heal Luna.

On the sixth day of Luna's sickness I was sneaking downstairs to find a different, more helpful potions tome when I saw that Miss Phryne, who was guarding the room, was asleep. It was the opportunity I had been hoping for. Slowly, slowly, as quietly as I could, I snuck past Miss Phryne and opened the door.

Luna was alone in the room, one bed in the stone classroom where we were instructed in transfiguration. A fire was lit, but she was shivering. I crept towards her and took her hand in mine. It was purple in color.

She coughed, bright red appearing against the white sheets, and her eyes flew open. "Hermione," she said, and she smiled, her lips chapped. Sickness made her appear even more fey than she had before, her eyes larger and her skin more translucent. Golden bubbles began to rise from the floor.

"Oh, Luna, I missed you. They would not let me come see you."

"You should not have risked it," Luna said, and then coughed again, a wet, splintering sound. She grabbed a handkerchief to mop the blood that her cough had dislodged. The handkerchief was also white, a disquieting sight. Who had thought to dress her in white? "But I confess I am glad to see you."

"I tried earlier, but I could not get through the door." My excuses tasted flat in my mouth, but I needed her to understand how much I had wanted to see her. "I've been researching potions. There is a blood replenishing potion that could help while you are recovering."

Luna shook her head. "Potions will not help me now. But how lucky am I to see you before I go."

My whole body went cold. "Will your father come get you, then?"

Luna smiled, and the air around her seemed thicker. "No, Hermione." Her face was filled with calm. "I am grateful that I am able to see you before I die."

"Luna, no."

Luna only continued to smile, her face serene. She could have been telling me about nargles once again.

"It will happen, Hermione. I do not think I was ever meant to grow old. Death is so close I can feel it. I am not afraid," she continued, seeing the anguish on my face. "Death is only what comes next. I am ready. But I will miss it here," she said and glanced around wistfully. "I do love the flowers in the spring."

"Luna-"

Luna squeezed my hand. "Just stay with me, please. I do not want to go alone."

If she had asked me to tear my heart out of my chest with my own hands I would have, and done so gladly. I laid next to her, wrapping my arms around. She was so warm it was like holding a furnace.

"Would you talk to me?"

I would have told her anything. Her voice was getting hoarse, and I began to tell her stories. At first they were fantastical stories, cobbled together from novels I read. Lands of tiny people and lands of giants and flying horses (thestrals, Luna murmured when I began speaking of them). But I soon ran out of stories of the fantastic, and I began to tell her stories of my life, of Aunt Umbridge and John's cruelty, of not being hugged until I met Luna, of what I knew of my parents, who were a squib and a muggle and who had died when I was young.

My voice caught as I thought about my own misfortune. I had lost my parents, and now I was losing the only person I had loved. Luna heard the catch and squeezed my hand again.

"Do not lose hope, Hermione," she whispered. "You have life and love ahead of you. I can see it. Do not forget that you are deserving of it."

I kissed her hand. "There is no hope without you."

"You are wrong," Luna said, and there was kindness and humor in her voice. "Your life will be long. It has scarcely begun. Do not be afraid."

I was so afraid. I was not afraid of death- if I died it would be nothing, I thought fiercely, for I could be with Luna and my parents again. But I was afraid to live without her. It was like she could sense my thoughts, for she grasped my hand and brought it up to her chapped, rough lips.

"Hermione, promise me that you will never succumb to that darkness. Let yourself live in love. Promise me."

I would have promised her anything. And so I did, and she relaxed into my arms, spasming only whenever she coughed.

I had run out of stories, but she did not seem to need them anymore. Her inhalations were raspy, and she was beginning to breathe color. She grasped my hand as her breathing became more difficult. Finally, as the light was breaking, she closed her eyes.

"I love you, Luna," I whispered. She smiled, and then exhaled. Her breath was visible, a pale blue, which transformed into a sparrow. The sparrow flitted around the room, then flew out the window, and Luna was still.

I was discovered at some point later, I cannot say how much. My own gown was decorated with Luna's blood, and my breath was gasping.

"Is she," Miss Phryne asked delicately. I opened my mouth to answer and instead burst into tears. I was taken to a separate chamber to bathe and was given a dreamless sleep potion, and fell asleep before I could turn in bed.

Luna's funeral was the next day. There were very few of us left- me, a few younger girls, and Luna's bedmate Hannah. Luna deserved a parade, a procession. I was angry at the world that she would not live in as many people's memories as she ought to.

Luna's father had arrived by then, a trembling, grey-haired man. I introduced myself as his correspondent, an introduction that seemed to mean nothing to him. He, too, seemed destroyed by this turn of fate.

Miss Ellery cried during the funeral. She spoke about Luna's kindness, about her generosity, about her fearlessness. She read, too, from a muggle book, words that I now have etched inside my heart.

_Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm; for love is strong as death_

That night I watched the bonfire from the window. No one paid attention to me, lost to my misery. They were all wrapped up in their own. Late at night, when the moon was high and the bonfire had long been extinguished, I snuck downstairs and out into the garden. The fire was still smoldering and the taste of smoke was in the air, and the thought of this being the remains of Luna's body made me feel sick. But she would do this for me, and so I would do it for her.

There was a garden shed that was filled with tools. There I grabbed a shovel and returned to the pyre, using it to grab ashes. As disturbing as this being her body was, the worse thing would be for her to be vanished, taking away every trace of her body.

Our favorite corner of the garden was one where the wall was lowest, and there was a view of the nearby forest and a bubbling creek. Here too there were flowers- snowdrops and moon-lilies and daffodils. She used to go here as soon as she could in the mornings to dress her hair with flowers, which would wilt over the day. It was here, I was certain, that she would want to be.

It was a still night, still cool but with a hint of the coming warmth of summer. We had spoken many times about what we might do in summer- the places in the forest to explore, the rumor of a swimming pond that was magically sheltered from male eyes. We would never have our summer together. But here at least she could rest in beauty.

Before my courage could fail me I sprinkled the ashes over the flowers. I fell to my knees when I had finished, resting my forehead on the earth. I imagined what Luna would say here about my dramatics. She would tell me there was no reason for distress, that she will not leave me. She would remind me of beautiful things in life. She would instruct me to not stop.

"I promised you," I whispered into the earth. "I promised that I would live. And I will."

When it was time to return I grasped a handful of moon-lilies, Luna's favorite. Back upstairs I pressed them into the novel she had been reading, a volume from the small circulating library at Prince's. I still keep them there today, perfectly preserved, a beautiful life taken too soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem for Romlida's funeral is the opening to "Remember" by Christina Rossetti. I was looking for something that fit the time and Rossetti's always lovely poetry felt perfect. Rossetti started publishing just a few years before Brontë's death, so they're contemporaries, but barely. If I were a more precise writer I would have kept looking, but I imagine that most readers of a Jane Eyre Dramione AU fanfiction will forgive me. The reading for Luna's funeral is from the ending of Song of Songs. I went with the King James Version for the feel and rhythm of the language.
> 
> We've come to the end of what's already written. There will be more soon. Promise.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven: Beauxbatons

 

 

My memories of this time of my life at this point become less distinct and I can no longer accurately describe the details of time's progression. Here lays my best attempt, and I apologize for any deficiencies that are present.

A few days had passed after the funeral when Miss Ellery called me into her office, the warm, cozy space that had before been previously so welcoming to me. I drank the proffered tea and avoided looking at the chair where Luna preferred to sit.

"The Ministry of Magic is aware of our situation here," Miss Ellery said after we exchanged pleasantries and she had stirred sugar into her own tea. "And they have made a decision. The school is to be closed."

If I had any capacity to pay attention at that point it would not have been a surprise. I was one of only a handful of students remaining at Prince's. The prospects of future enrollment were dim. Who that loved their child would send them to such a place where tragedy had so recently struck? But instead I was struck with a sudden loss. My dearest friend had left me. Now I was to lose a place that was not always happy, but was more of a home than Cracknell ever had been.

"All students who attend Prince's," Miss Ellery continued, watching me carefully, "are being offered admission at Hogwarts."

Hogwarts, that dreadful world where my cousin John studied. I began to shake my head in fear, almost missing the second part of Miss Ellery's speech.

"Positions are also being offered to teachers. Miss Meadows will be stationed in the library, and Professor Snape has accepted a position as Potions master."

My whole body felt cold. Not only must I leave here, but my two most fearsome bullies would be in that enclosed, hateful space with me.

"Must I go to Hogwarts?" I asked, my voice small when I could find words to speak.

"Is the thought of Hogwarts so dreadful to you?"

I nodded, not trusting my own voice. Miss Ellery studied me.

"There is one other option," Miss Ellery said, speaking slowly. "It would take a bit of letter writing, but Beauxbatons in France has also offered to accept any student who wishes to attend from Prince's. It is the less attractive option, I am aware- they speak French in classes, and it would be difficult to return home for holidays. But it is possible."

I had never heard of Beauxbatons. It could have been very well located on the moon for all I knew. But it was an escape and I was willing to take it. I found my words and my courage to speak.

"Beauxbatons would be much preferred for me."

"Very well," Miss Ellery said. "The school will be closing in a week. We'll have to make arrangements rather quickly."

I said my thanks and my goodbyes, but as I stood to leave the room Miss Ellery stopped me.

"Hermione," she said, and she had a gentle, kind look on her face. "You will not be alone, at least. I have accepted a position as Professor of Magical Theory at Beauxbatons."

I left the office, feeling a jumble of emotions welling in my chest- loneliness and fear and excitement and longing. I did as I often did in those days when my feelings became too intense to bear alone. I went to the garden to be with the moon-lilies. Luna would understand.

I accompanied Miss Ellery the next week to Beauxbatons. We took the Night Carriage from Cokesworth to Dover, another bumpy ride that was far less astonishing now than it had been months ago. From Dover, we set sail on a muggle sailing ship to France, where I suffered from seasickness for most of our journey. We landed in Calais eight hours later and disembarked to an unfamiliar voice was calling our names.

"Professor Ellery! Miss Granger!"

The voice was Scottish and belonged to a woman, and Miss Ellery grasped my hand to pull me through the crowds. There, at the edge, was a powder blue carriage, looking more elegant than any I had ever seen before. A driver was attired in a matching powder blue suit. And next to it was a simply clad but fastidiously attired woman with hair the color of midnight pulled into a severe bun.

"Ah, I've seen you made it," she said. "Miss Granger, I am Professor McGonagall of Beauxbatons. I've been sent to fetch you."

She was so crisp and proper that I was uncertain exactly how to respond. I avoided looking at her, suddenly nervous that my dirty clothes would offend her.

"There's no need to be so fearful of me, Miss Granger," she said, and her voice held some unexpressed gentleness. "Shall we?"

The carriage was plush and luxurious inside, and felt like elegance. As soon as we were settled the carriage raced off, the docks of Calais disappearing quickly.

The carriage rode like magic, smooth and swift. Miss Ellery and Professor McGonagall were soon in deep conversation together as I spent my time staring out the window, watching the countryside change. Being here was terrifying, but when I lived in Cracknell I feared that I would live and die without ever leaving the grounds. And now I was in France, where I would, barring any tragedy, spend the next several years.

"Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall asked me, interrupting my thoughts. "Is it true what Professor Ellery says? You do not own a wand of your own?"

"No ma'am," I said feeling as though I had already disappointed her. "Prince's did not allow us to own wands of our own."

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "Barbaric," she said. And without a warning she opened the carriage door and stuck her head out. Wind whipped through the carriage and I had a view of the countryside racing past.

"To Paris!" she shouted.

She returned to the carriage looking just as severe, not a hair out of place. The carriage turned sharply, and we were soon approaching the city.

Paris was a mess of people, of sights and sounds and smells. The carriage nimbly rushed through the streets, navigating through alleys that should have been too narrow for it. I had lost all sense of bearing by the time it stopped at a café entrance.

"Welcome to  _Café de Chantraine_ ," Professor McGonagall said, the French words sounding peculiar in her Scottish accent. I scarcely had time to ask the significance of this cafe before we were whisked in, and arrived at a completely different street on the other side. It seemed that Paris had a magical heart hidden deep within in the city.

The shopping was efficient, so much so that I could not hold onto all the wonder at the same time. A wand was chosen for me by a tiny woman who could have been two hundred, and I felt the warmth of magic beneath my fingers like for the first time. I was piled with sheaths of paper and quills and ink, and was given some gold to choose a book or two of my own desire in addition to my school books. When I hesitated, Professor McGonagall curtly informed me that Beauxbatons had a fund for such occasions, and it would be impolite to refuse. There were many beautiful robes on display, but I had no money for such things, and Professor McGonagall assured me that Beauxbatons would provide me with my uniform. Ladened with packages we made a quick stop at  _Café de Chantraine_ , which was now a bustling restaurant serving lunch. After a meal of roast partridge that was far better than anything I had eaten in the past several months we entered the carriage once again and resumed our journey.

It was sunset by the time we had crossed the country, and we were deep in the mountains. The carriage never slowed, never flagged, and I was wondering how much further we would be going. Surely we would stop soon for dinner. And we did, after cresting a few mountains and arriving in a beautiful valley.

The valley was not the only beautiful thing. There was an enormous castle- a chateau, as I later learned to call it, nestled in the valley. As large as it was the chateau was dwarfed by the grounds. They were elegant and stylized, with large expanses of grass and beautifully maintained flower beds. There was a river winding its way across the edge of the chateau, which was as smooth and reflective as glass. I knew immediately that something this elegant must be maintained by magic, and the amount of power here must be far greater than at Prince's.

"Welcome to Beauxbatons," Professor McGonagall said to Miss Ellery and me, and the smile she gave me was understanding, kind even.

The entrance had a ceiling that was so high I could scarcely see it and walls lined with mirrors on one side, murals of mythic creatures on the other. An older girl, more beautiful than any I'd ever seen, was standing at attention at the foot of a marble staircase. She curtsied deeply when we approached her.

"Miss Delacour, this is Miss Hermione Granger. Miss Granger, Miss Fleur Delacour will be your guide here while you get settled into living at Beauxbatons. She is a fourth year, and she will be looking out for you. Miss Delacour, if you could show Miss Granger to her room."

Fleur Delacour wore her blonde hair long. It danced behind her as she walked, gesturing with graceful hands. She was truly lovely, but more distinctive than any facial features was the glow that she emitted. She was my first introduction to the cruel fact that some women are simply so beautiful that their beauty seems alien. She was also my first introduction to the fact to be so unearthly beautiful did not prevent someone from being deeply kind.

Fleur took to me right away, fussing over me as if I were a younger sister. She remarked upon my lack of luggage, promising me that I could borrow anything of hers that I needed. She told me that I had arrived right at school as exams were happening, and so I'd be set into my own room for the time being. After she had brought me to my own room she apologized for its size, but the room held a large, comfortable bed meant for me alone, a fireplace that already had logs laid, a wardrobe hung with robes, and a window with a beautiful view of the mountains. She sensed my exhaustion and asked me if I wanted to eat or wash before I slept. I wished for both, but had no desire for company. She understood from my hesitant response my desire for privacy and left me after calling for food and washing water to be brought. After a simple but satisfying meal of fish stew and fresh bread, and a wash of my face and hands in warm water, I fell asleep before it was even yet fully dark. The only familiar thing with me that evening was my doll Hestia, tucked into the crock of my arms.

Beauxbatons emptied soon after I had arrived. It was the summer and the students, including Fleur Delacourt, had to return to their parents. There was a handful of other students, both male and female, who remained behind, but none were my age and few spoke English. I spent the summer wandering the grounds with a book and my wand- my wand, mine, no one else's- practicing both magic and French. Miss Ellery met with me for tea as often as she could, though she too was busy preparing for her new role. Fleur wrote me a few letters and I responded, feeling grateful for the ability to write someone. I wrote to Luna too, every day, but those letters were bound and shoved into the bottom of my desk drawer, hidden from all eyes including my own.

In September the chateau filled once again and I was moved from the single room that I had occupied all summer into a larger room to share with classmates. There were four of us in this room, two girls from France, one from Spain, and me. Françoise and Jeanne and Isabella were all perfectly kind to me. They were already dear friends to each other, and they were friendly to me. They corrected my language, explained about professors, and offered reassurances to me. I was jumping into second year without much knowledge, and found I had to work very hard to keep up. Which was exactly what I wanted, to have to work so hard that I could not spare the time for thinking.

If I had gone to Beauxbatons in a different state I should have emerged with lifelong friends. But as it was I was deep in the thralls of grief, and let knowledge rather than friendship fill me. The members of the school were mostly kind. I began to wonder if it was the state of people to be mostly kind, and if I had simply been very unlikely. I never sat alone at a meal. I was even given small gifts of chocolates and trinkets at Christmas. But I never shared the deep friendship I had with Luna with anyone else. Although that meant I carried a sort of loneliness with me it was also a relief, that my friendship with Luna remained something unique and sacred.

The years passed. I finished second year with good marks, and emerged with an invitation to spend a few weeks with the family Delacour. They were kind and cautious around me, gently correcting my French and attempting to teach me to fly. I returned to Beauxbatons early when they left to visit family in the North. Fleur was inconsolable, feeling like she was abandoning me. I assured her she was not. It was not something I could quite share, but being around this happy, loving, elegant family made me anxious in some deep way. It was a reminder of the things I never had. I was well acquainted with loneliness by now, and it was an easier state to manage.

I achieved excellent marks in my third year, and continued making excellent marks for the remainder of my school career. I visited the Delacours when Fleur could convince me to come, visits that became less frequent after she left school and moved to England. I continued to have friendly, though not close, relationships with my schoolmates. I grew to love the grounds of Beauxbatons, and although I refused to fly over them I dearly loved to walk. In my fifth year Miss Ellery left Beauxbatons after her marriage to a gentle and kind wizard, a happy occasion that still left me feeling bereft. I had a flirtation with a fellow student in my sixth year, a flirtation that ended without a kiss when his family suggested marriage to another student who was beautiful and kind and rich, all the qualities that I did not have and could not begrudge him prioritizing. And In my seventh year, I began to meet with Professor McGonagall once a week to study the more rigorous applications of transfiguration. She appreciated my mind, and I had by now grown fond of her.

"What will you do after school?" Professor McGonagall asked me one evening as spring was approaching. It was a question that I did not yet have an answer to.

"I should like to continue studying," I said, "but I am fearful that as a woman that is unlikely."

"A woman may study," Professor McGonagall said slowly, as if she was trying to protect me, "but a poor woman will find it difficult to do so. Tutorship positions for women are unpaid, and the living expenses are steep. My dear girl, men build mountains between women and their ambitions so that they can laugh as we attempt to summit and say how frail we are when we fall."

"So there is no hope," I said, feeling the ice in my heart. This was the bitter confirmation I had feared to receive. I had gone so far, farther than I had ever thought possible. But it seems I could not go far enough.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "It has happened before. But a formal tutorship may not be worth pursuing, at least not right away. What I would ask of you is to choose what you wish to pursue, and then make your next movements appropriately. Many women have found the means to continue study by marriage, by acting as companions, or as domestics."

Marriage, servitude, or selling my body. These were my options. "I am not that sort of woman, Professor," I said with disgust in my voice.

Professor McGonagall looked at me with firmness. "Hermione, we are all dealt an unfair hand. Using what leverage we have to raise ourselves without harming each other is sometimes necessary."

I opened my mouth to contest that I could not think of anything worse, but I was struck with a realization. I thought as little as possible of my Aunt Umbridge, but she came to remembering again. She had money and power. She was a respectable member of polite society. And she used it to campaign against people like me- poor, muggle-born, and if the articles from the pages of  _Le Monde Magique_  were to be true, against her fellow women. To be in possession of that much cruelty would be far worse than an arrangement.

"I do not think I could be a companion," I instead said, and Professor McGonagall nodded.

"There are many families around England and France who require governesses," she said instead. "They will pay you and shelter you, allowing you to save money for a tutorship. And many of the old families have large, well-stocked libraries, so you can continue your studies. It is a way forward, though not a preferred one."

I left that night with no decision made but the options swirling through my mind. Companionship was not an option for me. I considered if I could ensnare any man for marriage, but I was not an ideal wife, having neither beauty nor fortune and in possession of a sharp tongue unbecoming for domestic life. Neither did I wish to work as a servant and live unprotected. But if I worked for a year or two as a governess, I could earn my own money and save it for future use. And if I chose wisely, I could emerge from my position as a more appealing student for a tutorage position. I could continue to study my twin fascinations of Arithmancy and transfiguration.

At my session the following week I informed Professor McGonagall of my intention. She supported my decision, and promised to assist me in any way possible. Soon she had written a letter attesting to my academic achievements and peerless character, and had contacted a variety of sources placed throughout England and France. A list soon emerged of families who were searching for such a governess. Professor McGonagall then helped me narrow down the list to those contenders who possessed an excellent library, and helped me write letters of introduction to gain an idea of how much compensation I should expect.

After I had gathered all relevant information it was a simple decision. Although there were some tempting libraries in France, the most tempting of them all laid in England. The salary offered was fair at a galleon a week, and while there were more generous offers it was more money than I had imagined I could receive. It would be for one young girl, the ward of the master, and the housekeeper wrote to let me know they were eager for me to begin as soon as possible.

The choice was sealed with a contract, witnessed by Professor McGonagall. Two days after I graduated Beauxbatons I would begin my employment at Malfoy Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n Thank you all so much for your patience with this story. I'm super excited to write the next chapter. In the meantime, if you're interested in reading more of my work I recently posted a Jily oneshot featuring Quidditch Star!James and Journalist!Lily called "James Potter Won't Go Quietly" that's live on my profile.


	9. Chapter Eight: The Belly of The Beast

Chapter Eight: The Belly of The Beast

 

I parted ways with Beauxbatons after the leaving ceremony had commenced. Françoise was returning to her parents, who were busy attempting to arrange a marriage with her and a former classmate. Jeanne was to return to her family and had found work as a secretary at the French Ministry. I had confidence that she would do well, and that she would do exceptionally if the French Ministry paid more attention to merit than gender. Isabella was leaving for Egypt, where she had secured an astronomy tutorship. She came from a wealthy Spanish family, and they were overjoyed at her prospects. I was happy for each of them. I promised to write, although I did not expect our correspondences would last long. But we embraced each other and laughed, and then I boarded the carriage bound for Paris. I had no space in my heart for jealousy when I was embarking on such a journey myself.

I was grateful for the French network of transportation. Rather than a Knight Carriage, there were carriage routes that ran several times a day. It was efficient and inexpensive, and much preferred to the jostling of the English solution. The route from Beauxbatons to Paris was a popular one, and the carriage was a particularly large one, with enough seats for forty. There was scarcely a seat to be found. I chose a quiet spot on the second story, avoiding conversation with people I knew and pretending to read. My life was about to change once again.

The carriage ride was seven hours long, and we were provided with sandwiches and coffee for purchase. I remembered the poor fare at Prince’s and ate my purchased meal with gusto. I did not remember English fare being delicious. If this was to be my last thoughtful meal, I would enjoy it thoroughly.

We arrived at Paris and I quickly caught the next carriage to Calais. It was getting dark and the carriage was much smaller than the one to Paris. If I could make my way leisurely I should prefer to let a room tonight and enjoy a morning in Paris. During my six years in France I had never stayed in Paris longer than the afternoon spent shopping with Professor McGonagall. But alas. I had no money to let a room and no time to explore Paris. Perhaps after my tenure as governess I would allow myself a day or two to explore. Or perhaps I could do my tutorship here. That thought buoyed me as the carriage raced towards Calais.

In Calais I found a muggle ship that would be sailing out with the tide, hours later in the morning. I paid for a single room, a ferocious expense that my contract had ensured me the Malfoy family would reimburse me for. But I was not allowed to board until the dawn. It was full midnight, and I was exhausted. I had been traveling since that morning. Calais had no magical quarter where I could seek refuge. Instead I found a quiet corner in a tavern and purchased a beer for the right to sit there with a book. It was imperative that I did not fall asleep. After the first man approached me, looking to solicit my presence for the evening I also cast a muggle repelling charm on my corner. That worked very well, but I found myself wracked with sympathy for the women who were working there, who bore the pinched bottoms with false laughter and strained smiles. I was reminded once again of the enormous thing I was attempting- to make my way independently of men as a poor woman. I at least had the protection of magic. They had nothing but their wits and luck. I began to cast stinging spells on the offenders. It was gratifying until the men began to murmur about the women harming them. I hurriedly quit the spells, not wanting to make things worse for the women serving.

The tavern grew more raucous, not less as the night went on. An hour or two before I would be allowed to board the ship I could not stand the crowd anymore. I canceled the muggle repelling spell and slipped out of the tavern with my one bag, dodging the grasps of drunk men. I spent my last tired hour under a disillusionment spell, wandering the streets of Calais.

Finally, it was time to board the ship. I took to my single room and warded the door, and then fought the seasickness that I knew was coming by falling into an exhausted sleep.

We arrived at Dover close to lunchtime, and I emerged, disoriented and exhausted but unharmed. On the dock a woman was selling cheese and ham pasties. I bought one and devoured it quickly. The dock was bustling. The pasty was delicious. I had not made a mistake in returning home to England. I wandered off the dock until I found a quiet spot, and then summoned the Knight Carriage.

The Knight Carriage was far too chaotic to sleep in and too rough to read. And so I passed my time looking out the glass, watching as the English countryside flashed past me. We went up North, near Cokesworth, then further North, to mountains in Scotland. Then South, to London, then to the sea. There was no rhythm to the travels, and my sense of direction and geography was soon confused. I found myself wondering how close we were to Cracknell Hall. I did not often think of my Aunt Umbridge, but I did now. I wondered what she might think of me. I may only be a governess, I reminded myself, but that was far more than she had ever expected for me.

We had stopped for dinner at an inn, and we had arrived in Wiltshire. When Malfoy Manor was called, I was ready.

Wiltshire was a land of sweeping fields of green and distant hills. Malfoy Manor was situated on one of those sweeping fields, a massive home of four stories with enormous windows. It was thoroughly English in appearance- there was no decorative garden as there was in Beauxbatons, and it was shaded with a dark forest behind the house. The Knight Carriage had stopped easily a mile away from Malfoy Manor, and as I drew closer I realized why. As I stepped within calling distance to the home a gate suddenly came into view, an elaborate piece of wrought iron. There was no door. I was locked out, with no way of announcing my arrival.

I had time enough to study the gate- an impressive piece of work, with a twisted design that must have taken mastery to execute- but not enough time to panic before a woman arrived. She was dressed in a green dress, more beautiful than one a servant might wear but not elegant enough to be a lady. “Hermione Granger?” she called to me.

“Yes,” I cried, grateful that my arrival had been noted. “Is this Malfoy Manor?”

“Well, what else could it be?” she asked, and approached the gate. My answer was not necessary, for she continued. “Place your hand on the knot right in the center there. The gate has to know who you are to let you in.”

I did as she instructed, placing my open palm on an ornate heart. A second later I gasped. The gate had pinched me, and drawn blood.

I had scarcely enough time to react when the ironwork began to unfurl and opened for me to enter. The woman was beaming. “There you are. Welcome! I’m Mrs. Spinks, the housekeeper. Come in, come in.”

The gate allowed me to enter, and I made my way up the path to Malfoy Manor.

Malfoy Manor was grand, certainly. But it was a dark grandeur, far different than Beauxbatons. The house was clad in dark wood, with no light shining from the windows. In fact, the house looked almost certainly abandoned. As we drew closer lamps flickered on over the door.

“Enchanted so they’ll only light for those welcomed here,” Mrs. Spinks said as she saw my curious gaze. I murmured something simple about how clever it all was. I had a feeling that I was entering the very belly of the beast.

A manservant was waiting, and he took my bag away. Mrs. Spinks led me to a dining room, reassuring me that it was not the formal dining room. A supper was laid for the two of us. There were grouse and potatoes and carrots glazed with butter, simple hearty fare, and a decanter of wine as bright as blood. Mrs. Spinks was kind enough not to demand any conversation from me as we ate, for I would have been a poor conversationalist if she had. I ate the hearty fare and felt restored. Once the meal had finished we were served a pudding and sipped the wine. I felt it was time to restart the conversation.

“How long have you served the Malfoys?”

“Oh, not long,” Mrs. Spinks said cheerfully. “And it’s only Mr. Malfoy and his ward who I serve. The family is old- very old, coming over from France with the Normans. But a few years ago the elder Mr. Malfoy and Mrs. Malfoy got mixed up in some dark arts. Now it’s just the younger Mr. Malfoy and Miss Cassiopeia. Mr. Malfoy splits his time between here and London. Someone’s got to tend to the family business”

“And what do you think of Mr. Malfoy?” I asked carefully. The only thing I found about their family was from dry genealogical tomes in the Beauxbatons library.

Mrs. Spinks’ face twisted in thought. “He’s a better man than he has any right to be,” she finally declared. “I never knew his parents. They have a nasty reputation about these parts. She’s living her life in exile, and he’s in prison now. But he has never been cruel to his tenants or to me. He freed the old house elf- the dear works in the kitchen now, pays him a sickle a month. No, no rotten man would do that.”

I agreed, and with that Mrs. Spinks offered to show me the house. There was a parlor and drawing room near our dining room, for informal entertaining. There was a grander set of each on the opposite side of the house. A ballroom, which has not been used since Mrs. Malfoy was exiled. A library, which I did not get a chance to see, but resolved to visit as soon as I could. The classroom, up the stairs and to the right, where I would teach my charge, and her suite of rooms. The rooms where the master stayed, other wings left undisturbed. And finally, my room.

It was full of a heavily carved canopy bed, hung with curtains of dark green. There was an elaborate rug on the floor, and a fire cracking cheerfully. An armchair was laid by the fire, and a desk against the wall. It was a well-appointed room, but with all the furniture heavy and out of date. Mrs. Spinks wished me a good night, and I quickly unpacked my bag. I had only a few dresses, a handful of books, and Hestia.

I did not sleep well that night. I thought that I heard shrieking and laugher and footsteps all above me. It made sense that Malfoy Manor would be haunted. It was old enough that I ought to expect a ghost. But I did wish for a quieter ghost. That, coupled with my nerves about my new station, made it very difficult indeed to fall asleep. Sleep finally claimed me long after my fire had burned down.

I met Cassiopeia the next morning after a quick breakfast of toast and tea. She was presented to me in our classroom, complete with a set of books, a chalkboard, and a rudimentary potions set. She was accompanied by her own maid, who was clucking at her in French. The maid was concerned that her hem was not straight, but reassuring herself that no ignorant Englishwoman would notice. I did my best not to take offense- I had not noticed Cassiopeia’s hem, hidden as it was under lace and ruffles.

“Hello, Cassiopeia,” I said as warmly as I could.

Cassiopeia was a beautiful child. Her hair was the same fine golden color as wheat in the summer that has been bleached by the sun. Her eyes were enormous and grey, and her mouth was angelic. She turned to her nurse.

“I do not want to learn from her,” she cried in French, and began to pout.

“We speak English in our classroom,” I responded, also in French, and the sound of the language snapped Cassiopeia’s eyes back towards me. Her maid colored as she heard me speak. I resolved not to hold either of their first impressions against them. I crouched down to Cassiopeia’s level. Mrs. Spinks had told me Cassiopeia was seven, but she seemed small for that age.

“My name is Miss Hermione,” I softly said, and held out a hand. “I will be your teacher.” I spoke English and kept my words warm, and after a second of regarding me Cassiopeia placed her hand in mine, as if expecting me to kiss it. I shook her hand instead. “Let us take a seat.”

I ran Cassiopeia through some manner of drills to see where her skills lay. She could not read, nor do sums. Her English was adequate, a by-product of living in an English home for the past few months, but she struggled with making herself understood. I had a feeling that as a pureblood Mr. Malfoy would wish his ward taught the basics of magic. But she was still young for those lessons, and she would do better with knowing how to learn. And so we set a curriculum. We would work on English, reading, and arithmetic first. We could speak French to each other during meal times. And during the last hour of every day Cassiopeia herself could choose what she wished to learn. I will not say that this arrangement pleased Cassiopeia, but she agreed to it easily enough. And so my days of teaching began.

Cassiopeia proved to be a fair student. When she cared about something she learned it very quickly. When she did not she convinced herself she was unable to learn it. She took quickly to arithmetic, and expressed an interest in brewing potions during her daily hour of choice. Reading was a chore until I pointed out to her that if she could read the potions books she would be able to brew more potions. She had a child’s interest in stories, but preferred them in French. When she was frustrated her outbursts were in French. But the quicker we moved through the material the fewer her outbursts were. She was a curious creature, a small child appearing as an angel who possessed such an analytical mind. I grew fond of both her and her maid, a Mademoiselle Edith, who I enjoyed speaking French with. The two of us even endeavor to teach Mrs. Spinks some of the language, to no success.

I taught Cassiopeia in the classroom five days a week for six hours each day. Mrs. Spinks offered that perhaps we should teach her more, but I demurred. She was making good progress, and I did not want learning to become drudgery. On Saturday mornings we practiced drawing and went on walks together. She showed some interest and excitement in learning how to fly. I told her that she must have someone else teach her, for I was an earthbound witch. The rest of the time was hers to spend as she wished, which sometimes included her pretending to make potions or attempting to read complicated potions tomes.

I spent my evenings in the library, researching transfiguration and Arithmancy. I toyed with the idea of becoming an animagus, but I had no reason to do so other than to prove I could. The library was old and vast and dark, and I spent most evenings in a chair by the fire, reading and taking careful notes, letting cup after cup of tea grow cold.

Sundays we all, Mrs. Spinks and Edith and Cassiopeia and I by carriage. It was expected of us as residents from the grandest house around, and the most conspicuous thing we could have done as witches would be to not show up. Mrs. Spinks made it clear that she thought it was good for Cassiopeia, and Edith complained more than once that she never had to attend church in France. But I enjoyed church. The talk of God and death and goodness made me feel like I was speaking once more to Luna, and I found myself beginning to pray, even when not in church. The idea of a grand, cosmic love was appealing to me. I had a wretched childhood. But I had been protected somehow, and I was now in a place of safety. And if it was dull, my early life had more tumult than anyone needed. I could accept dullness.

And so my life progressed. Teaching, exploring, reading, church. I received letters from my old roommates, and I responded. Soon we had a regular correspondence, and I found myself wondering once again if I could have had a true friendship if only I had allowed it. Some days I went to the village for the pleasure of purchasing something. I was not able to afford much- a muggle novel, a bit of ribbon- but I had never had the thrill of spending my own money. Not that I was careless. Most of my salary went into an enchanted purse in my chest of drawers. The purse could expand infinitely, and it was charmed to only allow me to open it. There lay my fortune and my future. I did not know how much I need to save to take on a tutorship, but as much as possible seemed a wise choice.

Summer came and passed and turned to fall. And I marked the changing of the seasons with my twice daily walks. I woke early because of the restless ghost that plagued the manor. Some days I heard shrieking, other days laughter. Mrs. Spinks knew nothing of it, and she seemed utterly unconcerned. The ghost did not respond to my pleas to please be silent, or if it must then to present itself so we could be properly introduced. I mostly heard the ghost while in my bedroom, and so I tried to spend as little time as possible there. And I walked once again before supper. I was no great outdoorswoman, but being out in the air with nature was a wonderful communion. It was a time of reflection and peace, the time twice a day when I could be only with my own thoughts. I would wander and imagine what my future held, what life could be outside of my isolation.

It was on one of these walks that my life did drastically change.

The air was growing colder. It was October and I was treasuring the falling leaves, the cold air, the nights of rain. The sun was setting earlier and earlier, and it was close to twilight when I did set out. At Mrs. Spinks urging I carried a lantern with me, letting it bob in front of me, lighting my path. I was walking adjacent to the forest, wondering how long I should stay at Malfoy Manor. I puzzled out how much learning I could manage alone and how far I could make my earned money stretch. My thoughts broke when I noticed that twilight had passed, and it was now full dark. The lantern had turned from decoration to necessary. Those thoughts had just completed when I heard the thundering of hooves.

I intuitively grasped the lantern in one hand and my wand in another. I had never heard another on this walk, and it was that knowledge that caused me to cast a strong _lumos._ My wand exploded in light, a horse whinnied, and there was a male voice cursing.

“Who the blazes is there?”

It was pure impulse that forced my response. “Who are you?” I responded instead. “How did you force your way in?”

A wand lit from the distance, and an illuminated man swung himself from a horse to the ground.

“I am known to the gates,” he said, and his voice was confident and commanding. “And who are you? How did you enter this land?”

He was walking closer to me, and my stomach began to flutter.

My first impression of him was of intensity. His walk was certain, but he was neither large nor imposing. He was taller than I, but that was no great task, and he was perhaps average in height.

He was handsome. His nose was noble, his brow high, and his mouth pleasantly expressive. But nothing of him was remarkable, save two things- his hair, so fine a blonde that it reflected the faint moonbeams already shining, and his eyes, the color of pewter.

The hair and eyes were the same as Cassie’s. This must be Mr. Malfoy. And if this was Mr. Malfoy, my charge was not simply his ward.

“My name is Hermione Granger,” I said, standing my ground. This was my employer, and the only way I could escape from this mess without censure was to make it clear I was protecting my charge. “I am the governess here. I live here, and I know nothing of you. Who are you?”

His eyes narrowed as he took in my appearance. My dress was clean and of decent fabric, but faded in color from a brilliant blue to a duller navy. My intense curls were bound into a knot on the top of my head and were just starting to escape. I was wrapped in a wool shawl, and carried a wand and a lantern. I did not look like an invading force, but indeed a governess.

“Miss Granger,” he said, and my name was stretched uncomfortably in his mouth. “I must say, Mrs. Spinks did not mention she’d employed a guard dog as a governess. Where did she find you?”

“Through Professor McGonagall at Beauxbatons. And who are you?”

“Beauxbatons,” he said and he looked at me once again. “Yes, that would explain why we are not acquainted. You are what? Eighteen?”

“I will not answer any more questions until you answer mine.” It was difficult to keep presence of mind with him examining me in such a way.

“You are a relentless one, are you not. And so curious. Very well, Miss Granger. I am Mr. Draco Malfoy.”

My suspicions correct, I gasped and swept into a swift curtsey. “I am so sorry, my lord. We were not expecting you.”

“Evidently not. And in the future you need not hide that sharp mind. You did make a decent show of not recognizing me, I’ll give you that, but your eyes give you away. Now, how old are you?”

Chastised, I answered him. “Nineteen.”

“And from Beauxbatons. Well-educated at the very least. What do you know of horses?”

Stunned at the sudden turn of events, I stuttered, “Nothing useful, sir.”

“Evidently. You have thoroughly spooked my horse with your light show.”

“I would not let any harm come to Cassiopeia.”

“Of that, Miss Granger, I have no doubt. Come with me.”

I was in a sudden, strange dream landscape where reason no longer fit. Dumbly I followed him to his horse.

His horse was anxiously pawing at the ground. He caught its brindle, and began to stroke it, whispering gently to it. Soon the horse relaxed, and Mr. Malfoy turned to me.

“Come on, Miss Granger.”

“Come what?”

“My honor as a gentleman relies on me ensuring you make it back to the house safely. You will ride with me.”

I had never ridden a horse before, and the thought was frightful.

“Come,” he said with a hint of impatience, and I slowly inched forward. When I was close enough his hands suddenly enclosed on my waist and lifted me up. I was suddenly sitting astride on the horse, a very unladylike position. Another smooth motion and he was settling in front of me.

“You will have to grasp onto me. Can you make that lantern light our way?”

It was an easy enchantment, one I need not speak for. Soon the lantern was bobbing in front of the horses’ head, my arms were wrapped around Mr. Malfoy’s waist, and we were moving.

Riding a horse was not quite as terrifying as flying a broom, but it was still worrying to me. I ignored my fears and tried to focus on other strands of thoughts. He was stronger than he appeared. My hands were clasped around muscles, and though I was small I would not be easy to sling over a horse for any person. Yet he did so with scarcely any effort. And there was his manner to recommend himself. He seemed annoyed at the situation, but not without some sense of humor about it.

Soon the house was close in view, and Mrs. Spinks herself was at the door. “Mr. Malfoy! Oh, and you’ve found Miss Granger! Mr. Malfoy, I’m deeply sorry, we’ve just received your owl.”

“An impulse decision, Mrs. Spinks,” he said, and dismounted. He helped me off the horse. My imagination insisted his hands lingered on my waist a second more than necessary. “My possessions and retenue will be arriving tomorrow.”

“Your chamber is waiting for you, and supper will be ready in a tizzy. Cassiopeia is excited to see you.”

“Of course she is,” and as we entered the hall he was in full sight for the first time. He was just as beautiful as I had thought but younger. Around my own age. How could he be the father of Cassiopeia? But she looked so much like him, there was no way he could not be. “Have her join me for dinner. And Mrs. Spinks, I request your and Miss Granger’s presence as well.”

There was no way to refuse him. I politely curtseyed, feeling his mocking eyes upon me, and hurried away to my chamber to dress for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we finally meet Mr. Malfoy. Thank you so much for your patience- life has been life, in all its chaos, pain, and glory, but working on this chapter has been rejuvenating. I'm just as excited as you are to see what's next.


	10. Chapter Nine: Attendance

Chapter Nine: Attendance

 

I had very little that was acceptable for dinner. I changed out of my dress (for I wore dresses, not gowns, the distinction being one of taste and practicality) of navy flannel, and into one of indigo cotton. It was scarcely more elegant, but it would have to suffice. With a wave of my wand I lightened the color to a more cheerful shade of violet. I bound my curls up in a pale blue ribbon. I had no jewelry to wear, and though I might transfigure something into a partially acceptable piece I chose against it. I had little eye for artistry, and so the transfiguration would be immediately apparent. And dinner could not be so formal that my lack of adornment would be unacceptable.

We took our meal in the formal dining room, a room that I had only been shown in my initial explorations of the home. It was an imposing room, with a high ceiling and carvings of gorgons and chimeras and other fantastical beasts around the woodwork. The dining table could easily seat thirty without any discomfort. Five places were set, and there was a cheerful fire in the grate. I waited by it, attempting to push down the chills the room brought. I had made peace with the corners of Malfoy Manor that I frequented. But the house still gave me pause, and this room had little warmth.

Cassiopeia and Edith arrived soon after. Cassiopeia was gleaming in a soft white gown. She looked uncomfortable and surly. She rapidly began to explain to me that she and Edith had been attempting to brew eternal life, and the dinner preparations had ceased their experiments. Edith nodded along, distracted. I knew from previous conversations that she had only met Mr. Malfoy once and she had found him fully captivating. I understood her distraction. I myself was prey to the same feeling. 

Mr. Malfoy arrived quickly enough and he was escorting Mrs. Spinks on his arm. She was bright with attention and a sort of familial affection that I myself had never felt. We exchanged pleasantries and then took our seats.

Mr. Malfoy was impressive to behold. His clothing was expensive, from the emerald pin that held his silver cravat in place to the fine material of his navy coat. But his fine clothing were incidental to the confidence he moved with. He had an assurance of his place in the world that I had never felt. Perhaps he might have been less attractive without this confidence, but his bearing and his person were impossible to separate. He nodded and dishes began to appear.

The kitchen had done well with the short amount of time to increase the food from a meal to an event. There was a whole ham crusted with mace and allspice, pheasant stewed with onions and leeks, finely milled bread smeared with salted butter, and a mash of pumpkins and rutabagas topped with gravy. The wine was rich and deep in taste. I could feel the strength of the wine affecting me as I sipped. This gave me a nervous thrill. I was already unsettled by Mr. Malfoy. I feared I needed my wits about me to enter conversation with him without peril.

“I trust that your voyage was safe, Mr. Malfoy?” Edith asked after we had begun eating, her French accent more pronounced. She was wearing an elegant gown of dove gray silk. I had no idea how she had procured such a gown, if she came from a more affluent family than I or if she was simply very skilled with appearance charms. No matter what the source, the effect was lovely. She looked like an elegant lady. I looked like a servant.

“It was tolerable until the end,” Mr. Malfoy said after he had taken the first bites of his meal. His gestures were almost elegant, they were so smooth and assured. “An elfen creature blinded my horse, and it reared and almost threw me.”

Mrs. Spinks gasped. “An elf! That is unthinkable. All of the elves were in the house. They would not leave without permission”

“Ah, Mrs. Spinks, this creature is a free one who has returned to the house. A tricky creature, she was. She had the gall then to scold me. Is that not true, Miss Granger?”

I rose my gaze to meet his. It was a difficult task. They had the appearance of a very calm lake. Reflective and dark, but with the knowledge that there was much hidden beneath.

“I do not know about an elf, Mr. Malfoy, but should you not be grateful? Those who live here must be well protected if any visitor is met with suspicion.”

“But I never said elf, Miss Granger. I said elfen. That is what makes this creature so dangerous. She appears small and meek, but she is ferocious.” His tone walked the thin line between sharpness and teasing. My cheeks colored and I kept my eyes down, focusing only on cutting my pheasant into smaller and smaller pieces. Mrs. Spinks was quiet with that comment, her brow furrowed. I could only imagine she was attempting to understand what Mr. Malfoy was insinuating.

“Cassiopeia,” Mr. Malfoy said after I had refused to react. The quick change of attention was a relief. “Tell me, how do you find Malfoy Manor?”

Cassiopeia began to speak in clear if not quite fluid English about her home. My heart lightened to hear her words. If he had asked not long before Cassiopeia would have given him a litany of complaints in French and would have appeared a rude, petulant child. Now instead she praised the grounds of the Manor, and explained how we had set a small potions laboratory next to the classroom. Mr. Malfoy nodded along to her explanations, asking further questions about her potions experiments.

“And who among you is responsible for encouraging her interest in potions?” Mr. Malfoy said when Cassiopeia paused in her recitation. Edith and I glanced at each other. We both might have liked to take credit for Cassiopeia’s aptitude, but neither of us could rightly.

“Mr. Malfoy, Cassiopeia followed her own interest with potions. It is a thoroughly natural passion,” I said after a long delay in the conversation. “All we have done is encouraged her interest.”

“You have only encouraged her interest,” Mr. Malfoy repeated, the words stretched in his mouth. “Mrs. Spinks, where did you find our governess from?”

Mrs. Spinks hesitated. His voice was even and cool. It could be an innocent inquiry or it could be a reprimand.

“Miss Granger joined our household with the express recommendation of Professor McGonagall at Beauxbatons.”

Mr. Malfoy’s brow raised. “And why, with a recommendation from such a venerable source as Professor McGonagall, are you serving as a governess, Miss Granger?”

I bristled. “My credentials are legitimate, Mr. Malfoy, and if you have any doubts-”

“I have no doubts about your credentials,” Mr. Malfoy said. I met his eyes and they were calm but curious. He tilted his head one way, then another, the way that a cat does when regarding its prey. “I am simply curious. What could force a bright young woman who has earned the formidable Minerva McGonagall’s praise into a position as a governess? What secrets are you hiding?”

“I ought to be concerned about the secrets you are hiding,” I retorted. “In my experience it is those who most fear secrets who are the greatest keepers of them.” I took a touch of pleasure in seeing a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“There are no secrets to my past,” I continued. “I came to Beauxbatons as an orphan. Opportunities for women are rare. Opportunities for poor women who have no connections are rarer still, and are never without expectations.” Mr. Malfoy was thrillingly forthright, but I still did not imagine that he would encourage discussion of the dirtier dealings between the sexes at the dinner table. “I am a lucky witch indeed.”

“And so you find yourself languishing as a governess, because your brilliance is not enough to counteract your position in life,” Mr. Malfoy said, and he took an elegant swallow of wine. I did not like how carefully I watched his graceful movements.

“I am not languishing, indeed.” I spoke sharper than I intended, but I did not like having my darkest thoughts parroted back to me. “I am not ashamed of my employment. And the work of a governess is valuable work. I have been given an opportunity to help shape a young mind, and I take pride in my work.”

“And what do you do when you are not working, or strolling the forests looking for invaders to threaten away?”

Mrs. Spinks jumped in with eager praise. “Miss Granger spends her evenings studying runic translation and transfiguration. She is a talented, prodigious witch.” Next to her Edith sourly stabbed her piece of ham. I understood her frustration. Perhaps once Mr. Malfoy was gone she and I would talk and laugh about this evening. I was not foolish enough to believe that his attention was anything other than a game for him.

“I enjoy reading,” I responded simply.

“Indeed,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Then you have chosen an admirable place for reading. I am certain that you were completely unaware of the reputation of the Malfoy Manor library before taking the position. It could only be a- what is the term?- a fringe benefit to your true desire, which is to shape young minds.” He taunted me with my own words.

The truly infuriating thing about his words is that I could not contradict him in front of Cassiopeia without seeming like I was insulting her. I had opened my mouth, not sure what tact I would take, when Mrs. Sprinks gracefully changed the subject to other household matters.

“And of the library, Mr. Malfoy, now that you’re here, I would appreciate your attention to another manner.”

“And what is that, Mrs. Spinks?” The heat that had been in his voice when we were speaking together had disappeared into something that once again was cool and calm.

“The books that you’ve been sending from Diagon Alley, sir. They need to be archived and I’m not sure system you should like.”

“Well,” Mr. Malfoy said, and his eyes once more fell on me. “I would appreciate the help of Miss Granger, who I am certain has a ready enough mind to help catalog some books.”

I was trapped between my desire to taunt him out of his coolness and my unfortunate interest. I agreed as quickly and quietly as I could, and Mrs. Spinks moved onto the repairs to the stables that must be done soon. Mr. Malfoy listened, and the remained of dinner passed in relative peace.

After the dishes had been cleared and the pudding served, a trifle of nutmeg, custard, and airy meringues, Edith asked the question that I had not been brave enough to do myself.

“And for how long will you find yourself here, Mr. Malfoy?” I had been aware that she was a handsome woman, but now I noticed the cupid’s bow lips, pursed while she was waiting, the fine hair, the small nose, the bright eyes. It was only natural that they should enter into a flirtation together. They were both lovely. I was not.

It was my imagination. It was impossible that his hot gaze fell heavy on me. “I believe I shall amuse myself here for a while, Mademoiselle Edith.”

Even the ghost seemed louder and more restless that evening.

I had become accustomed to thinking of Malfoy Manor as a quiet estate, one where I could hide away from the world. But Mr. Malfoy had arrived, and so suddenly the estate became a hive of activity.

Suddenly there were visiting hours. The Manor had always been clean, but overnight it had begun to gleam with highly polished woodwork and all the lanters lit. Food arrived out of the kitchen for a late breakfast and elaborate dinners. Cassiopeia and I were settled with trays rather than joining for the meals. The dinners were full meals, with men in dress robes and every place setting of the thirty available in use. I began to avoid the library after our lessons, preferring to dart in and out early in the mornings, searching for books and returning the ones I had taken. Mr. Malfoy did not send for me to help archive books, and I was relieved. Indeed, for a time I was under the impression that Mr. Malfoy had forgotten my existence entirely.

That illusion shattered one evening when two drunk men were stumbling down the halls. I heard them outside the classroom I had been tidying after Edith took Cassiopeia for her bath, and I left the room to check what the unsettling sound was. One spied me and began to make his way over to me, winking heavily and leering.

“Hullo, darling,” he slurred. “How’s about you come over here, honeybee? I’d like to be getting to know you a little better, you hear?”

He was a massive man, with a heavy brow. He was also unsteady on his feet. His state made me believe that I would be quicker on the draw than him, but attacking a guest would be absolute grounds for expulsion from the Manor. Before I had the time to make the mental calculation of what would be the better fate his companion elbowed him.

“Come off Crabbe,” his companion grunted, “Draco said he’d skin us alive and then toss us out if we touched any of his staff. There’d be more willing ladies in the village.” This was well-received, and the offending man ambled off quickly enough. I ducked down the hallway out of sight, and listened to their footsteps fade as my heart slowed to its customary rhythm. I had never had a protector before. I was grateful for it, even as I wished I had no need of one.

Cassiopeia was interested in the visitors. I kept her away as best I could. She was not yet old enough to realize the danger that could come to her. I did think that if I was in Mr. Malfoy’s protection, then she would be even more under it as his daughter. But he seldom called for her, and their interactions were brief. I found myself wondering over and over again what was the nature of their relationship. I spent even more time wondering about Mr. Malfoy.

I had little experience with men, but even if I had several years of knowledge I should still believe him mysterious. Every time I felt my thoughts wandering down that path I banished them. He certainly did not think of me. I should extend to him the same courtesy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve just found out that the restaurant that I helped open shortly after I began this story, the one that I spent so much time and energy on, is closing. It’s a pretty dramatic life change, but not necessarily an unwelcome one. I’m hoping to use this opportunity to rebalance my life. Which should mean more time for writing.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience, and thank you for sticking around.


	11. Chapter Ten: For Want of Affection

Chapter Ten: For Want of Affection

 

The surly visitors had disappeared by the next time that Mr. Malfoy called for me.

He did not call for me alone, of course. That would be highly unusual, as well as improper. But he did summon the remaining members of the household to the library one evening- Mrs. Spinks, Cassiopeia, Edith, and I. A few elegantly wrapped boxes sat at the feet of Mr. Malfoy.

“Well, Cassiopeia,” he said in lieu of a salutation, “don’t you want to find what is in your boxes?”

Cassiopeia stepped forwards quietly, and knelt at the closest of the boxes. The box was almost as tall as Cassiopeia was while kneeling. She untied the cream-colored ribbon, and gently ripped the paper covering it. The paper was the same blue as a robin’s egg and was so finely milled it was undoubtedly more expensive than my carefully hoarded pieces of parchment. My fingers twitched, wishing that I could take it and repurpose it. I had yet to write to Isabelle about Mr. Malfoy, and that paper would be perfect for a letter. Isabelle was also unattached, where our other roommates were in various stages of engagement. She would have many questions for me.

Cassiopeia waited for a moment with a look of eager anticipation on her face. And then she removed the lid of the box and her face fell for one quick moment.

“How lovely Cassiopeia! You must thank Mr. Malfoy!” Edith urged, already lifting the dress that was the precise color pink of peonies. It was heavily ruffled, an ornamental dress for an ornamental girl.

“Thank you Mr. Malfoy,” Cassiopeia said with perfect manners and no true feeling.

“If you find you do not appreciate this gift,” Mr. Malfoy drawled, “you may find that the second will suit you better.”

He gestured to a much smaller parcel. Cassiopeia dutifully kneeled and gently unwrapped it again. A book was revealed

“ _Potion Making for Youths: An Exhaustive Guide to Primary Instructions of Creating, Bottling, and Brewing of Elixers_ ” Cassiopeia read. Her voice began slowly and ended with rapid glee.  She hugged the book to her chest. “Thank you, thank you! I will treasure it.”

“I hope you’ll value it more than that dress,” Mr. Malfoy said in his lazy manner, but he looked faintly pleased with her enthusiasm. She gave him one quick hug, and ran off to a small chair near the fire, where she began to read. I resisted a laugh, understanding well her enthusiasm. I had been just as hungry for books at her age, and far less likely to receive them.

Mr. Malfoy glanced at the one remaining gift and cast a glance towards Mrs. Spinks. Mrs. Spinks looked over at Cassiopeia.

“I don’t think there’s much that could grab her attention now, Sir,” she said. Mr. Malfoy sighed.

“And after the expense of ordering a solid gold cauldron too,” he said. “Perhaps it’s for the best. I’ll save it for the first time she’ll be truly upset with me.” He drew his wand and the box disappeared.

“What a lucky girl Cassiopeia will be!” Edith exclaimed. I said nothing.

“It does not seem Miss Granger does agree,” Mr. Malfoy said. He looked straight at me, as if daring me to contradict him.

I hesitated for just a moment too long. It was not my place to comment on how a family ought to behave. I scarcely had an idea myself. But no one spoke during my silence, and it seemed that now I must.

“I am an orphan, Mr. Malfoy,” I finally said, feeling daring. “Growing up I had no fine dresses, no books that were mine, no cauldrons of any metal. The only thing that was my own possession was the rag doll our old house elf stitched for me. But it was never possessions that I wished for.”

“And what did you wish for?”

“Affection, Mr. Malfoy,” I said, and I met his eyes boldly. They looked almost blue in the flickering firelight. “I had no affection from my guardians, and I craved affection above all else.”

Mr. Malfoy cast his gaze over to Cassiopeia, and shook his head in one fine, discreet motion. “Then Cassiopeia is lucky she does not want for any affection.” His tone was twisted with something that was not quite sarcasm. His eyes fell upon me.

“What must you think of me, Miss Granger?” His voice was soft, his words clipped. It was not the voice of a man who would allow being ignored.

“That you are generous, of course,” Edith began.

“Mademoiselle Edith,” Mr. Malfoy said, and her eyes snapped to his face. “I believe your charge needs your attention.” It was both a censure and a command that could not be ignored. Edith bobbed a curtsey and headed over to Cassiopeia who remained absorbed in her reading. Edith took a seat next to Cassiopeia with her head hung, a dull flush on her cheeks. With a sidelong glance from Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Spinks went to join Cassiopeia and Edith.

“Now, Miss Granger, do you find me to be generous?” He and I were left undisturbed in this massive, cold room.

“Mr. Malfoy, I believe it is poor form for an employer to demand the opinion of his subordinate.”

“So you do not.” His eyes were glittering.

I hesitated.

“I do not need you to flatter me, Miss Granger.”

“Do you not think of yourself as generous?” I asked.

This was the closest that I could come to an answer. I was not only avoiding his question for stubbornness, though I confess there was and remains an obstinate quality to me. I could not yet arrive at an answer. He gave possessions abundantly. I was paid better than I had expected. Cassiopeia wanted for nothing. The house elf in the kitchen, a peculiar fellow by the name of Dobby, had joyously announced to me that he worked for wages and wore clothes. But there was not a spirit of generosity about Mr. Malfoy that I would expect for a man who gave so favorably. It did not come naturally to him.

He raised his eyebrows at my deflection, but he answered me. “Generosity is a mindset, Miss Granger. I find I do not possess it,” He leaned forward in his chair and rotated his glass of whiskey in a lazy pattern.

“Those who have little can afford to give much. Those of us who have much find we hoard our possessions like dragons. When I give, it is a trifling. I have long been in the habit of accumulating, and giving has yet to break that habit.”

“Can you say that accumulation has given you happiness?”

“Are you about to give a lecture to me, Miss Granger? Are you to tell me that it is better to give than to have, that I might be happier if I lived my life as a simple peasant? Or perhaps you are a true radical, and think that I must give it all up including my magic and live as a muggle. And in that misery, I should find transcendence. Is this what you are about to tell me?”

His tone was mocking. It set my teeth on edge. He did not seem to expect me to answer his charge, and so I addressed the underlying sentiment.

“I am not so foolish to think that life is happier without things.” I was grateful that my voice was steady. Such subjects often caused me to be quite emotional. I continued.

“I have lived both without and without good meals and warm clothing. My life was significantly easier and more cheerful with. I am as fond as decorative things as most witches. But I reject your claim that because you have a multitude of wealth, or because you have always been certain of your magic, that you live a more fulfilling life than I.”

He was drinking his whiskey without much attention until I mentioned magic. Then he looked at me forthrightly.

“Certain of your magic. You are muggle-born then.”

I bit my lip. I had revealed more than I intended to. But it would not do to hint and pretend I was ashamed of my parentage.

“I have already told you I am an orphan. I was raised by my aunt believing that I was a muggle. My father was a muggle. My mother was a squib. My aunt was ashamed of my presence in our family, and she sought to punish me for it. First she punished me for being a muggle, as she believed I was, and then she sent me away in punishment for being a witch.”

“Your mother was a squib, you say. What is her maiden name?”

“Umbridge. Catherine Umbridge.”

“Your aunt was Dolores, then, is she not?”

I nodded, unwilling to speak further. I had not thought that Mr. Malfoy might know my aunt Umbridge socially, and now I was intensely fearful that he would. If she came I would have to leave, and if Mr. Malfoy would not give me permission to leave I must flee.

Mr. Malfoy shook his head. “If you have survived life with Dolores Umbridge and still are here to argue goodness with me, then I have no leg to stand on. You continue to surprise me, Miss Granger. It is very easy to look at you and think that you are simply a plain but ambitious girl. But you could be fearsome, I think, if life demanded it of you.”

I was not fond of discussing my own attributes. I quickly changed the subject, filled with relief that I was unlikely to see my aunt Umbridge again.

“You do not have a high opinion of yourself, Mr. Malfoy.”

Mr. Malfoy surprised with by laughing.

“Once I did, Miss Granger. I was a wretched, self-important child. If you had told me once that men are meant to be good I would have laughed. Goodness was a foolish goal. What mattered was power.”

He was staring straight into the fire, and his words took on a peculiar, haunted quality. I do not think he was speaking to me anymore, but only that he needed a soul to speak to. It was as if he was attempting to purge the demons from his heart.

“A sickening thing, power. When you are willing to do anything to reach it. When anything is justified. I am not a wicked man, Miss Granger, not anymore. But I was. I am not proud of the things that I have done. And now I find I must make my amends.”

He glanced over at Cassiopeia who was speaking excitedly with Mrs. Spinks and Edith. His spine straightened and he gave me a perfectly charming smile.

“But you have nothing to make amends for, Miss Granger, do you not?”

“I am no angel, Mr. Malfoy,” I said. “Of course I have remorse in my life.”

“That this is your response indicates the goodness of your soul. What do you have to be remorseful of, Miss Granger? Did you speak sharply to a friend when you ought to have been gentle? Did you steal a trinket because you coveted it so, and in your shame could not return it? Can you tell me that your remorse is for greater sins than these?”

I did not speak. I could not tell him so, but to me this meant that I was ordinary, not especially good. The truly good among us were like Luna, pure, unblemished souls of kindness. I was not like Luna. I had found it necessary to learn goodness.

“No,” he said sharply in response to my silence, “I did not think so.” He gazed at me as if he was seeing me for the first time.

“You, Miss Granger, have been the victim to much darkness in your life. I can tell by the way you speak, and of the reputation of your esteemed Aunt. I wonder if it is easier to let evil leave your soul when you did not invite it in. You did not choose darkness, and still you had to overcome it. That’s the remarkable thing, that you did succeed.”

I was saved an answer by the clock beginning to chime. It was ten, well past Cassiopeia’s bedtime. Mr. Malfoy shook his head as if he had been roused from a dream. Some of the charge began to leave the air between us.

“Mr. Malfoy, I do believe that it is time for us ladies to leave.”

He stood. “Indeed Miss Granger,” he said, his voice the voice of a perfect gentleman. I found I hated it. He bowed to me, and crossed the library to bid Cassiopeia good night.

The ghost was horrific that night. It was wailing, screaming, and crying. When not screeching it had a hoarse woman’s voice, muttering evil curses. I put up silencing spells around my room, but I still could not sleep. My mind could not quiet.

It was after midnight when I slipped out of bed. I felt jittery and anxious. My mind could not stop racing. I was in need of reading materials to urge me towards sleep, and I had no untouched books in my room. I would slip quietly into the library and find a tome. The decision made, I slipped on my dressing gown, lit my wand, and began to creep through the house.

The library door was heavy, and so I pushed it with a shudder. I paused for a moment after the door opened with a scraping sound. What I was doing was not against any rules I had been told, but if someone would hear they might come investigate. No one seemed to stir. I relaxed a bit.

I was quick in my errand, finding a book of runic theory that I had yet to read. It seemed wise that with how perplexing Mr. Malfoy was that I not negate my studies. He could ask me to remain for a long time, or he could turn me out quickly. I should be prepared for either option.

The portraits lining the wall, which were seldom friendly, were asleep. I should not want to disturb them. I crept back through the hallways, the light of my wand dimmer than usual.

I had made a turn through the labyrinth halls of the manor when I saw a shape next to a window. The heavy curtain was open and moonlight was streaming in. As I approached I started, shocked to find another person awake.

My light drew attention. Mr. Malfoy looked up and walked towards me in steady stride. I involuntarily took a step back, so my back was against a wall. He halted. I must have looked afraid.

“What are you doing, prowling the halls at this time of night?” he said. His voice was dangerously soft. His fair hair looked shot with silver in the moonlight.

“I could not sleep,” I said. “I went to the library to find a book.” I showed the book in my hand, worried suddenly that he would say that I could not borrow books without express permission. He did not glance down.

“Did our conversation stimulate you as well as it did me? Or did you not find it satisfactory?”

Innocent that I was, I did not quite understand the implications. I only knew that implications existed. Meeting him here, without the opportunity to calm myself beforehand, was utterly distracting.

“If the conversation would not have kept me up, the ghost would have.”

Mr. Malfoy jerked. “The ghost?” Deep furrows appeared between his brows.

“It shrieks and sometimes keeps me awake. Tonight it was particularly active.”

Mr. Malfoy frowned. “This ghost has not made itself aware to me. Come. We will go back to your room and I will put up silencing spells.”

“I have already done so. I simply could not sleep after. There’s no need for you to worry yourself over me.”

“I insist,” Mr. Malfoy said, his voice unbreakable and firm. I did not think that argument would work with him, and so allowed him to follow me back to my room. When we arrived he entered the room and began casting wards as well as the silencing spells. I could not recognize all of the spellwork.

“I thank you, but this is not necessary,” I said after a few minutes of spell casting. “Any more and it would scream of excess.”

“I am an excessive man,” he said shortly and continued his work. He finished with one last spell of orange haze that sunk into the walls of the room. He glanced around and nodded with his own satisfaction. “Sleep well, Miss Granger.”

He left promptly, and I forced my attention immediately to my book of runes, attempting to decode them. I did not let myself dwell on how closely he had stood to me, or how long he had lingered in my room. He would no doubt be attending all the rooms over the next few days to do the same protections. I repeated this to myself whenever my thoughts strayed from my runes until my eyes grew heavy. I slept well that night, and did not wake until breakfast was almost over and Mrs. Spinks came searching for me to ensure I was unharmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all the best. Thank you for all the kind words I received about my job- I'm very excited to see what's next, and to get to spend more time writing. Your lovely reviews what keep me going some days, and I deeply appreciate them.


	12. Chapter Eleven: The Tale

Chapter Eleven: The Tale

 

After our initial audience we ladies began to spend our evenings in the library accompanied by Mr. Malfoy. I anticipated these meetings with equal parts excitement and dread. 

Every night after Cassiopeia’s lessons had finished but before dinner I would seclude myself, customarily for a walk. Winter was drawing near, with frost appearing on the leaves in the morning and the threat of an approaching snowfall in the air. But the weather was not yet frightful, and I was resolved to spend as much time out of doors as I could for as long as I manage. And so I bundled with flannel petticoats and knit wrappings and marched out the door, attempting to clear thoughts of Mr. Malfoy from my mind. 

I had felt this tug at my mind before, though never as intense. I was not so naive as to not know the identity of my feelings. What I felt was attraction. It was an ordinary thing for a witch of my age to feel in regards to a wizard. Our proximity doubtless increased the attraction’s potency, rendering it far more intense than it might be in a more ordinary arrangement. But the heat I felt in my chest when around him was a perilous thing for me to feel in this situation, and a treacherous thing for me to act upon. For he was dangerous.

It troubled me to think of Mr. Malfoy as disreputable, but Cassiopeia was here with him and her mother was nowhere. Deductive reasoning implied that he was at fault. Professor McGonagall’s words flitted through my mind, about women who have no other options. Perhaps she had too been a servant. Or perhaps she had been a prostitute he sought out some holiday. Mayhaps she had been his mistress, and he had spoiled her with riches.

I returned often to dwell with that possibility. It felt invasive to imagine him and some beauty, shapeshifting in my mind but I could not stop my fretting. First she was a bonny and willing scullery maid, next a glamorous and worldly opera singer. I did not like this cycling of my thoughts, but I felt it necessary to return, if only to protect myself.  If he was to victimize me, then I should not go willingly. I ought to stay strong in my virtue. Reminding myself of his possible misdeeds was the most effective way to maintain my position.  

I repeated these thoughts on my daily walks, where I tried to let the cold air exorcise my treacherous wants. And then I would return for supper with the ladies of the household- Mr. Malfoy often dined in town or in his study- before we would convene in the library, where my opinion of Mr. Malfoy habitually and irritatingly continued to change. 

Every evening he graciously greeted each of us and made polite conversation. Sometimes he and Cassiopeia would discuss potions making, or the winged horses she hoped to find, or the cold. When she had specific potions questions he answered them carefully, and would consult books if necessary to fully answer her questions. He treated her interest in potions as a serious, systematic search, rather than a child’s passing fancy. She appreciated his regard, and was quite fond of him. 

He was not only kind to Cassiopeia. Some days Mrs. Spinks would find new spools of yarn for knitting, which made her flush with pleasure. He asked Edith and me to teach him French, with Cassiopeia often chiming in. He professed an ignorance to the language that it was quickly clear was a gross exaggeration, although his accent was poor. He made polite conversation with Edith her native language, and made her laugh gaily.

I was second to Cassiopeia in his attentions, and I occasionally wondered if I should have been first if I could be as forthright with my desires as she. We spoke of many things after that first night. Potions, first, thanks to Cassiopeia’s interest, and then we moved onward. Herbology was tangentially related to potions, then Alchemy and Arithmancy. He believed that both were connected to Divination, a claim I rejected. He knew more about History than I, as it was compulsory in Hogwarts and I only had my meager six months at Prince’s to teach me. But I was astonished to hear that Magical Theory was not taught at all at Hogwarts, where at Beauxbatons it was a requirement for all seven years.

He was clever and well-read, able to ask the right sort of questions to deepen his understanding of any given topic. He said without boasting and without false modesty that he had been near the top of his class at Hogwarts, and I believed his claim. When I was brave enough to ask he told me he had known my cousins John and Georgiana, though not well. John was a Gryffindor, and an unpopular one. Georgiana was a Hufflepuff, which Mr. Malfoy said with a snort. He himself was a Slytherin, and he was amused when I confessed those names meant nothing to me.

“Slytherins are ambitious,” Mr. Malfoy said, his eyes glittering. “They are cunning. They know what they seek, and they do not rest until they have gained their prize.” It seemed as though he leaned in to speak these words, almost in imitation of telling a secret. 

That evening, alone in bed, I firmly convinced myself that his eyes had not been trained on me. And if they had been, which was an impossibility I ought not consider, I would never give in to his wiles. If I did, I would lose everything- not only my virtue, but also my future, and my self-regard. 

It was not as difficult to convince myself as it could have been. He behaved towards me as a perfect gentleman. We did not touch besides him offering his hand to me as I sat in chairs and rose from them. He maintained an appropriate amount of distance when speaking to me. We had no clandestine meetings. There was no lack of propriety. 

I reasoned that if he intended to seduce me, he was doing a very poor job of it. And Mr. Malfoy was worldly enough that he would not do a poor job of a seduction. Therefore, he could not intend to seduce me, and my attraction to him was more than foolish. 

I repeated these charges to myself every day. I entered the library every evening entirely convinced of their truth. And then my foolish attraction reared, and I was left a reeling, lost mess of feminine emotions. 

And so my mental cycling continued for a few weeks. Until one afternoon when it was so chilled that I could see my breath as I walked, and Mr. Malfoy came strolling down the path in the other direction.

“Ah, Miss Granger! Care for some company?”

I started. It was almost as if I had conjured his existence by my constant thoughts. 

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy,” I said. I was grateful for the cold, for my cheeks were surely already thoroughly flushed. 

We set off following the path that crawls through the trees. His unexpected appearance had shaken me, and I ordered my thoughts into coherence. I reminded myself that he is a gentleman. He is not interested in you, I chastised myself. It is an impossibility. 

If he were to attempt to kiss me, though, would I curse him or allow myself to get swept into the moment? A kiss need not be destruction. A kiss could just be sweetness. But a kiss could lead to far darker pathways. A million scenarios flashed past my mind until Mr. Malfoy’s voice interrupted.

“You seem lost in your thoughts, Miss Granger.”

I scramble. “I was only thinking of Cassiopeia, Mr. Malfoy, and how well you treat her.”

“I would scarcely call answering a child’s questions treating her well.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. It did not seem right that he should have such scorn for himself, and I hurried to correct the situation. 

“But you are,” I insisted. “I longed at her age for someone to do just that for me, to treat me with goodness and kindness.”

“Goodness and kindness,” Mr. Malfoy said. His voice was sharp now, and when I looked over at him his face was twisted in a grimace. “No, Miss Granger, those are not qualities that I possess.”

“Mr. Malfoy, I do not believe that,” I say briskly. “All evidence I had gathered proved otherwise.”

“Then, Miss Granger,” he drawled after a long moment, “it seems I have a story I must tell you.”

The light was shifting as the sun began to sink beneath the horizon. He light his wand and held it aloft. I repeated his gesture 

He trained his glance on my wand. “It is right that this story should be told in the light,” he said. “For it is a story of darkness.”

I shivered, despite my best attempts to temper my reaction. While he was not a person of cruelty, I will admit that the Manor did not inspire the same feelings of confidence. It was a dreary, dark space, and I often felt as though I was living in one of the gothic novels that I occasionally bought in the village. The atmosphere was appropriate for a frightful story, in that dark and heavy home. The forest was fit as well, with its aged and gnarled trees. 

“What do you know of a wizard commonly called the Dark Lord, Miss Granger?” Mr. Malfoy asked. My brow furrowed. I had heard that name whispered in the halls of Beauxbatons.

“Are you referring to Lord Voldemort, Mr. Malfoy?” I asked. He flinched, and then winced. It was curious and disquieting to see him react to such a small thing as a question.

“Then you not afraid of him.”

I shook my head. “I only heard some stories at Beauxbatons. He was power-hungry, mad, and wanted to be immortal. But not terribly powerful. I heard he was defeated by a young boy.”

Mr. Malfoy laughed, a humorless sound. “He would be infuriated to hear that is how he was remembered,” he said. “If only your description were true. It seems that your information is lacking in a few places.”

He began strolling once again, and I followed him. He took a shuddering breath, and then began his story.

“Lord Voldemort, as you so bravely identify him, was a powerful wizard. He was not mad. He was perfectly lucid in his goals. He wanted domination, and he wanted revenge. And he preyed on insecurity and prejudice to obtain those goals.”

“You are muggle-born, Miss Granger. You are aware of that prejudice, are you not?”

“More so than you are,” I said stiffly. “For it has followed me my entire life.”

“You are correct,” Mr. Malfoy said, “in the notion that you have lived through this prejudice in a way that I have not. However, Miss Granger, my experience is with hatred of muggle-borns is also an extensive history. My parents were blood purists. They were also followers of Lord Voldemort.”

We had reached a clearing in the trees. He turned towards me, a tender and fearful look upon his face. His words were coming out quickly and efficiently. It seemed he wanted to tell this story as quickly as possible, with as many facts and as few opinions as possible “But that is not the whole story. I was a blood purist. I was a follower of Lord Voldemort. I became a Death Eater as a teenager- are you aware of what a Death Eater is?”

I mutely shook my head, and gripped my wand tighter. I did not think that he should hurt me. But if he should- I had put myself in a treacherous position. If I was not wise, I could lose not my reputation- what now seemed a small thing to lose- but my life. I did not know if it was prudent to calm myself or to stay vigilant. Mr. Malfoy continued to speak, ignorant of my inner struggles. Or perhaps he sensed that I needed more information to form a sound judgment.

“The Death Eaters were his disciples. They were not the ones who applauded policy but wondered if he might be going too far- they were the ones who did his murderous, bloodthirsty bidding. They were branded with his symbol. I was branded with his symbol.”

Mr. Malfoy grasped the sleeve of his robes and pulled upwards. There, on his left arm, was a faded image. It was ghastly and large, taking up much of his forearm, a snake slithering through the mouth of a skull. It was hideous. He glanced at it with loathing. 

“I do not wish for you to spend your energy reassuring or excusing me. I was young, and I believed what I had been taught. I was a coward who was excited for the chance to hurt people I had deemed lesser.”

He turned away and resumed his stroll. I followed, struggling to keep the correct distance of hearing everything, and being able to flee if necessary. Mr. Malfoy did not glance back at me. Perhaps he already knew I would follow him regardless of the danger.

“Lord Voldemort killed for power. He killed for revenge. He told us all that it was because the muggles were taking over, and the muggle-borns were stealing magic. I learned later that his mother had run away with a muggle man, who had abandoned the family. His great cruelty was all a result of his fury and shame. If he had not been consumed with darkness he might have been a great man. No matter how twisted his soul, he was a clever man. He studied dark magic not seen for centuries and sought immortality. And in his seeking he instituted genocide against muggle-borns and against muggles. Against people like you.”

“My story is not extraordinary,” Mr. Malfoy continued. “There was a boy, you are correct. He was promised that he would bring down Lord Voldemort, and he did. His name was Harry Potter. He and I attended school together- as rivals. Mr. Potter was also an orphan, like you. And like you, he is good. You two would be friends, I think. You both radiate goodness. One night Potter was captured and brought to this manor. I had been growing slowly more and more horrified with Lord Voldemort, and with myself, for months. They were brought to our dungeons. When I was sent to bring him to be interrogated I broke my own expectation and helped him escape instead. It was the beginning of my rehabilitation.”

He was breathing more rapidly now, and it was as if he could not stop speaking, as if telling this tale would free him from his tethers. 

“I spend much of the rest of the war in safe houses, providing information, and training with Potter’s fighters until they believed my change of heart was true.” Mr. Malfoy said, and his eyes lingered on me. “I faced my parents across the battlefield, Miss Granger. My parents were the people I loved the most. It was horrific. But my conscience could no longer bear who I had become.”

“Potter defeated Lord Voldemort in that battle. The Ministry saw fit to pardon me for my crimes in light of my contribution to the war. My father was sentenced to Azkaban, my mother to exile. And now I live free but a pariah. I am shunned by many, by those on the right side and by those former supporters who walked free.”

“It is a fair penance, I think,” he said, his voice forcefully light. “I was seeking power, and now I have none. Instead, I must spend my time trying to become a good man.” He had stopped walking again, and was now staring up at the canopy of leaves, black against the ever-darkening indigo of the sky.

“And do you find that you are becoming one?” I finally asked, my breath raspy in my throat. He started, not expecting the question. But he studied me for a moment, then smiled.

“If I am not becoming a good man, then at least I am becoming a better man.”

We stood for a long moment, illuminated only by the wand light. The light seemed stronger near him, reflected as it was from the fine silver of his hair. I was therefore able to see him well, better than he could possibly see me. His story seemed etched on his face- the sorrow and fury and longing and hope. I was no longer afraid of him, but I was perhaps even more wary. And then he raised his chin and stepped back and he once again wore the face of a proper gentleman.

“Perhaps I should have told you this story before,” he said, his voice steady. “You had no idea of my reputation when you took this position, and that was unfair of me. But now you know my pathetic tale. If you find the prospect of continuing your employment loathsome or fearful, I will release you from your contract with a fair settlement and a glowing recommendation.”

My stomach contracted. Fool that I was, though the thought of running from him had occurred during his story, the thought of leaving him was a shock. 

“I do not think I am quite ready to leave,” I said instead. After a moment he held out his arm for me. There was a glimmer of something, perhaps hope, in his eye. Perhaps it was something else. My confusing attraction was still swirling in my mind, but I had far too much to think about now. I pushed it aside. I would decide on it after I had examined his story.

“In that case, please allow me to escort you back to the manor,” Mr. Malfoy said. He held out his arm and I took it, and we walked the path in silence. It was only as we approached the Manor, it looming in my vision, that I realized I had not asked about Cassiopeia.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone, for your patience and your kind words, for sticking with this little story. I love you all.


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